Thai Horse

Hatcher arrived at the small boxing arena a little after seven. It was mid-city at the rear of one of the stunning Wat Suthat. Although the main event did not start until ten, Sy was a preliminary fighter and was scheduled to fight at about eight o’clock.

This was not a big-time Muay Thai match but was like a tank-town fight in the United States, a testing place for young Thai fighters looking for a place on the big-time cards held four times a week at the Lumpini or Rajadamnern stadiums.

Noise, heat and confusion greeted Hatcher as he entered the small arena, which was surrounded by betting windows and Thai bookmakers. The betting was frantic. It was still daylight and it was hot, and the Thais, who gambled with great passion, were a noisy and frenetic mob, sweating and screaming and waving their bahts overhead looking for a bet.

Added to the general confusion was the music that accompanied the fights, a traditional but cacophonous blend of woodwinds, banjo like stringed instruments, a semicircle of tuned gongs, and several different kinds of drums. The overall effect made a cat fight sound melodious by comparison.

Since two Thais had won the flyweight championship of the world a few years earlier, both traditional Muay Thai and Western boxing were featured on the card. The fans stood around a large garden at the rear of the arena, like the paddock at a racetrack, watching the boxers warm up and making their choices. The Muay Thais worked almost in slow motion, like ballet dancers, while the American-style fighters jogged about the grass paddock like American fighters warming up. But if the Muays practicing their ballet-like moves seemed somewhat dainty, nothing could have been further from the truth; they were by far the more ferocious battlers. There had been a time in the past when these Thai fighters had bound their hands with hemp on which ground glass had been sprinkled and fought until one of them collapsed. Now they wore lightweight gloves — no glass permitted — and there were five three-minute rounds. The referee could also stop the fight in the event of an injury.

It was well known in martial-arts circles that a good Thai fighter was a vicious opponent and almost unstoppable.

Sy was wearing a dark blue jacket with a green and red cobra coiled on its back, its white mouth open and threatening. He took it off and handed it to his trainer, a hard-looking box of a man with a crushed nose and thick eyelids. Beneath the jacket, Sy wore red silk boxing shorts with his name printed across the leg in blue Sanskrit. He was also wearing a cord around his head and his left bicep, traditional trappings for Thai boxers. The band around his head was tan and white with a stiff ponytail that stuck straight out in back with a strip of blue silk dangling from it. The thong tied tightly around his left bicep hid his good luck amulet strung to it. His feet were bare.

Sy moved with incredible grace, his eyes almost hypnotically fixed, standing on one foot, then on the other, spinning slowly as the music played at twice the normal tempo in the background. Then suddenly as he spun around he lashed out with several ferocious kicks, slashing his arms in a series of one- two punches, then spinning around again and ending in a slow-motion pirouette.

Hatcher was impressed. He went back to the betting area, weaving his way through the yelling, gesturing crowd, keeping an eye out for Wol Pot, although he realized the odds of spotting him in such a crowd were far greater than the odds against Sy winning his match. Hatcher bet a purple on his driver, the underdog in his fight, taking the long end of a five—to-two bet. If the little Thai won, Hatcher stood to gain 750 bahts, about thirty-seven dollars, which he planned to give to Sy as a bonus.

For the first few bouts, Hatcher cruised the crowd around the betting windows and bookies and checked out the screaming gallery during the fights, paying little attention to the action in the ring.

No Wol Pot.

At six-thirty, Sy was ushered into the outdoor ring. On the edge of the city, lightning streaked across the sunset sky accompanied by the distant rumble of thunder, but nobody paid any attention to the threatening storm.

The referee, as in Western boxing, introduced Sy and his opponent, a larger and huskier fighter named Ta Tan.

No biting, wrestling, judo, spitting, butting or kicking the opponent when he is down, the referee warned in Thai, explaining that there would be five three minute rounds and the match would be stopped in the event one of the fighters was injured. There was a loud chorus of boos and catcalls at the latter announcement.

The ritual of the fight began. The music stopped and the crowd became silent. Sy lowered his head and folded his hands in the traditional wai, thanking his trainer and praying to Buddha, telling his God that he believed he had the ‘right’ spirit to win his battle. Gautama Buddha spoke of four noble truths: first, existence is suffering; second, suffering is caused by desire; third, eliminate desire and you eliminate suffering; and finally, the eight ‘right’ rules by which one eliminates suffering — right understanding, right thought, right speech, right bodily conduct, right livelihood, right effort, right attentiveness and right concentration. Sy repeated these to Buddha, promising to abide by the rules and live the right’ life.

After the prayers the music began slowly, providing background for the two fighters, who circled each other in the ring, showing their moves. Sy seemed a more classic fighter than Tan, whose style was less poetic. He seemed more of a brawler, less quick than his smaller opponent.

The first round passed without incident, a dizzying exchange of kicks and punches, most of which missed their mark as the two fighters parried and studied each other’s style.

In the second round, Tan moved from his corner fast and struck first, jogging forward on one leg while with the other thrusting at Sy with short, stabbing kicks. Sy easily avoided the first moves, dancing away from him, spinning around and parrying Tan’s kicks with his own feet. Then Tan did a change-up, switching legs quickly, parrying and leaning sideways and throwing a hard kick at Sy’s groin. It connected but it was high. The little Thai grunted, doubled up and backed away, but Tan pursued him, punching now with lefts and rights, which Sy dodged by moving his head away from the blows until Tan landed a hard punch on the temple.

Sy spun around and lashed out with his right foot, slashing it into Tan’s side. The larger fighter took the blow with ease, charged Sy and threw a series of lefts and rights, his gloves smacking loudly as they caught Sy on the cheeks and jaws. The crowd, sensing a kill, was on its feet, screaming for a knockout

Tan, the brawler, although slower and more clumsy than Sy, had the advantage of size and weight. He bulled in, kicking and punching while the little Thai dodged and danced, trying to avoid the blows. He could not avoid all of them. They rained down on his head, and the kicks found their mark on stomach and thigh. Sy twisted one way and then the other while Tan seemed to have complete control of the match. The bell saved Sy from further damage.

He sat in his corner, casting an occasional glance at Hatcher and smiling. There was a trickle of blood at the corner of his nose. Sweat poured in rivers down his hard, lean body.

Sy was tougher than the crowd thought. The third round began much the same way as the second with Tan charging out, kicking and punching and then going for the change-up, switching feet and lashing out much as a Western fighter might change his lead from right to left. But Sy had psyched out his opponent’s style, and he, too, did a fast change-up. Now he suddenly started showing his stuff. He ducked inside Tan’s combinations and lashed out with a brutal uppercut that grazed Tan’s jaw, throwing him off-balance. Sy jumped back and landed two quick kicks to the stomach, switched feet and caught Tan with two more vicious kicks. Tan staggered back, stunned by the sudden ferocity of the little fighter. Sy took immediate advantage. He came in fast on one foot, then quickly changed feet and landed a sizzling kick on the bridge of Tan’s nose. Blood spurted like juice from a ripe orange. Tan backed away, shaking his head and fell into a protective pose.

Now it was Sy who became the pursuer. He feinted with two kicks. Suddenly he switched feet again, turning the upper part of his body almost parallel to the ground, and lashed out with a brutal kick to the groin. The larger fighter roared with pain, spun around and dropped to one knee. He took a six count, then, bellowing like a bull, charged Sy from his knee.

Sy was expecting the charge. He spun around, landed a brutal kick on the side of Tan’s neck, snapped three right-left combinations straight into Tan’s face. The bloody nose got bloodier. Then he kicked again, this time with deadly accuracy. The blow snapped Tan’s head back. He stumbled backward, obviously in trouble. One eye was beginning to swell shut. In desperation he charged the smaller fighter, wrapping his arms around him, pinning them to Sy’s sides and snapping his head against Sy’s forehead.

The crowd reacted with boos their affections quickly switching to the underdog. The referee moved in quickly and separated the fighters, admonishing Tan, who jogged back away from Sy. The little man’s nose was bleeding from the head blow. He shook it off, waved off the referee, and began to stalk the big man. The bell ended the round.

Sy’s trainer was babbling in Sy’s ear, and the small fighter was listening and nodding. Hatcher continued to scan the spectators between rounds, hoping he might get a break, although it was an adds-on bet that Wol Pot was not there. This was not, after all, a major bout.

The fourth round, Tan changed his tactics. He moved more precisely, more like a Western fighter, feeling Sy out, looking for an opening. Sy moved gracefully, dancing around his heavy-footed opponent.

Suddenly, ferociously, Tan slashed his foot out and landed a direct hit in Sy’s groin_ The little Thai doubled up in pain and fell against the ropes.

The crowd wasn’t sure whom to scream for.

Tan stepped in like a tiger and landed three grueling punches to the face. Sy was down on one knee, shaking his head, blood spattering down his chest and mixing with the sweat. He glared up at Tan, and Hatcher saw hate in his eyes. This was the look of a killer. Sy wiped the blood from his face with a glove and shook his head when the referee leaned over and said something to him.

Now he was back on his feet, bolstered by the cheers of the crowd.

Tan charged again, using his flat—footed jogging step to get inside Sy’s defense. But then the little Thai did something amazing. He cart-wheeled away, landed on his feet behind Tan, and as the bigger man whirled to face him, took three short jump steps, leaped in the air and snapped two kicks straight into Tan’s face and landed back on both feet.

While Tan was still staggering under the blows, Sy jogged in again, feinted with a kick, and landed two right-left combinations straight to the point of Tan’s jaw.

All four punches found their mark. Tan staggered backward and Sy did his change-up step again, jogging in, switching feet, leaping up and lashing out with a double kick before he landed back on both feet again.

Hatcher was on his feet, screaming with the rest of the crowd.

Bemused, hurt, dizzied by the ferocity of the attack, Tan threw a desperation roundhouse killer punch. It whistled a quarter-inch from Sy’s jaw.

Sy smacked him with two fast lefts and slammed a right into the corner of Tan’s jaw just under the ear. Whap!

Tan spun around, fell face forward into the ropes, bounced off and sat down hard, flat on his ass. He looked around the ring through glassy eyes.

The referee started counting. On six Tan was on his side. On eight he had both feet under him. On nine he shoved himself to his feet.

The referee stepped back.

Sy moved like a shot. He zigzagged across the ring while Tan tried to get him in focus. lie never saw the last two blows.

The first was a kick to the top of the stomach, which doubled Tan over.

The second was a blistering right hand that had all of Sy’s 120-plus pounds behind it. Tan’s head snapped like a punching bag. He fell straight to the canvas, bounced on his knees and fell face forward to the never-never land of the deck.

Angels couldn’t have awakened him.

Sy was leaping around the ring, holding his hands over his head, a picture of pure joy. His trainer charged into the ring, lifted him up in a bear hug and danced around the square with him.

The crowd was going crazy, throwing programs, hats, amulets and bottles into the ring,

Hatcher started to laugh as he applauded. That, he said to himself, was one helluva fight.

Hatcher waved his winning tickets over his head, yelling, as best he could, to Sy as his trainer hopped around the ring with him. ‘Seven hundred and fifty bahts, pal, seven hundred and fifty bahts!’ At that moment, Sy could not have cared less. Buddha had believed him. He had taken down the big man. And the crowd was cheering for him.

In his excitement, Hatcher did not notice the old Chinese watching him. The main was tall, but stooped. He had gray wispy hair and a white beard, and was wearing a silk cheongsam. As Hatcher left the arena the old man followed him.

Hatcher made his way back across the arena floor and went outside to one of the five pay-out windows. He felt the first cool splats of rain. Thunder and lightning were bare seconds apart. Hatcher stood in the line checking out the crowd.

He noticed the ears first. They were big and stood away from his head. Then the nose. In profile, the man’s nose was long and slender, almost a hawk nose.

The man, who was two rows away and slightly behind him, was the right size. Five six, 150 pounds. His head was shaven clean, but hell, anybody can shave his head, thought Hatcher. Besides, Hatcher was really only interested in the area from the man’s forehead to his upper lip. He called up his ch’uang tzu-chi, remembering all the details in the photograph of Wol Pot. The nose and ears matched the picture.

Now for the eyes. That would tell Hatcher for sure, those eyes would do the trick. But the chunky man was wearing sunglasses and in profile Hatcher couldn’t see his eyes that well.

It began to rain a little harder. More lightning with the thunder right on top of it. The man caught him staring. Hatcher turned away, monitoring him through his peripheral vision. The man stared hard at Hatcher but did not take off the glasses.

The stooped old Chinese lingered under the rim of the arena, out of the rain, watching Hatcher.

Hatcher reached the window, and the cashier counted out his winnings. He walked back through the crowds around the window and stood near the back of the arena, watching the man with the big ears as he collected his winnings.

Hatcher stared straight at him until he was sure the man saw him, then slowly moved back into the shadows of the arena. It began to rain harder. The man was wearing black pants and a white shirt, and he huddled his shoulders against the rain and leaned forward, peering toward Hatcher.

He took off the glasses and squinted toward the shadows.

Hatcher got a clean view of the eyes. Cold, lifeless, ruthless eyes. Big ears. The aquiline nose.

It was Wol Pot.

A crack of lightning coursed through the sky and struck somewhere nearby, accompanied by a deluge.

Hatcher stepped back out of the shadows and started through the crowd toward Wol Pot, who wheeled and headed for the exit. Hatcher bolted, threading his way through the crowd that was lining up to bet on the next fight.

He raced after the Vietnamese traitor, so surprised at actually finding the POW commandant that he failed to notice the stooped old man who was watching him.

The rain was coming down in driving sheets that acted like a veil. In the rush of the crowd to escape the rain, the old Chinese lost sight of Hatcher; he ran into the rain, frantically searching the crowd. He rushed to the main entrance and stepped out into Thi Phatt Road. Crowds of people rushed by seeking shelter from the rain. Neon signs glowed in the early darkness. Desperately the old Chinese turned and hurried toward the alley that ran beside the arena.

Hatcher had kept Wol Pot in view, muscling through the scattering crowd as he raced after him. The chunky Vietnamese turned abruptly and darted through the side entrance of the stone wall surrounding the practice grounds and into an alley off Thi Phatt Road. He huddled against the stone wall as the storm gained in intensity and lightning streaked the darkening sky.

He heard the door open behind him and he started to run.

Hatcher was two dozen feet behind him as Wol Pot ran toward Thi Phatt Road. He decided to try a bluff.

‘Hold it right there, Wol Poi,’ he yelled hoarsely so he could be heard above the din of the rain. ‘I don’t want to have to shoot you.’

The ruse worked. Wol Pot s1owed down, then stopped, moving back against the wall again, seeking the shelter of the jasmine and orchid blossoms that spilled down the wall. He slowly raised his hands shoulder- high, afraid of what might be behind him. Who was this farang? he wondered, but did not turn around. Wol Pot was a devout coward. If he was to be killed, he did not want to see it coming.

Hatcher walked up behind him and stuck his middle finger in Wol Pot’s back.

‘Bang,’ he whispered in Wol Pot’s ear.

The stubby man whirled, realized he had been duped and started to bolt, but Hatcher grabbed him by the throat and slammed him back against the stone wall, back among the wet jasmine blossoms. Water poured down Hatcher’s face, and he could feel it seeping into his shoes. Then as suddenly as it had started, the rain stopped. Heat broiled up from the hot pavement and turned to steam around them.

‘I came halfway around the world to talk to you,’ he whispered. ‘Now you’re going to answer some questions for me.’ Hatcher quickly frisked him.

‘I don’t speak English,’ Wol Pot stammered in Thai.

‘We’ll speak Thai,’ Hatcher snapped back in Thai.

‘W-w-what do you want?’

‘I want Murph Cody.’

The old Chinese turned down the alley adjacent to the arena and walked through the swirling steam caused by the brief, intense rainstorm. In the red glow of the nearby neon signs the steam looked like the fires of hell. The old Chinese peered through the steam. Somewhere in front of him he heard voices. He reached under his robe and drew out a silenced .38.

‘Cody!’ Wol Pot stuttered in English. ‘Who are you?’

‘A friend of Windy Porter’s, the man who was killed trying to save your hide on the klong -‘

‘I don’t know —‘ Wol Pot began, but Hatcher took the passport out of his pocket and held it in front of Wol Pot’s eyes.

‘Don’t lie to me, you miserable do-mommy, you were there, with the girl.’

Wol Pot’s snake eyes squinted with fear. He began to cringe, shrinking deeper among the damp flowers. Neon lights from the nearby street cast a red glow across his face.

‘Why do you want Cody?’ he whined.

‘You wanted to trade him to Porter for a visa, isn’t that right?’

Wol Pot’s eyes lit up. ‘Are you from the embassy?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Just let me ask the questions.’

‘I didn’t know about Porter until I saw it in the paper. I didn’t know it was him,’ Wol Pot whimpered.

‘I’ve got a deal for you,’ Hatcher’s shattered voice hissed. ‘You give up Cody and I won’t turn you over to the American military for your war crimes.’

The POW commandant shook his head, and water dribbled down his bald pate into his eyes.

‘Where is Cody?’ Hatcher demanded.

‘I do not know.’

‘Don’t lie to me, you little squid, I’ll—’

‘I do not know, I swear to you. He has vanished. Why would you want him anyway?’

‘Maybe he’s a friend of mine, too,

‘He is scum!’

‘You’re a hell of a one to talk.’

‘Cody is a heroin smuggler. He is a thief and a murderer. And worse, he is a child killer.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘He murders children and stuffs their bodies with China White. That is why he calls himself Thai Horse.’

‘Cody is Thai Horse?’

‘Yes, that is what he calls himself.’

The information shook Hatcher. He stepped back a moment, staring at the ex-prison warden.

It was the last thing Wol Pot/Taisung ever said.

Hatcher did not hear the silenced shot until it hit Wol Pot in the chest. It went thunt and the chunky man grunted and rose up, as if standing on his toes, then fell back against the wall. Two more shots followed in quick order. Thunt, thunt.

Hatcher wheeled around and fell to one knee in time to see the ancient Chinese, aswirl in the steam, aim the gun at him. He stared at Hatcher, the gun held in front of him in both hands. Hatcher jogged to the left, then shifted back sharply to the right. But the stooped old man didn’t follow his moves. He raised the gun abruptly and backed slowly toward Thi Phatt Road, the neon-stained red mist swirling around his stooped figure until he vanished into the crowded road.

Wol Pot sighed pitifully and slid down the wall into a sitting position. His mouth was open and gasping for air. A red stain began to spread around the three holes in his shirt front. His eyes rolled back and his head fell to one side, and he slumped on his side.

Hatcher jammed fingertips into his throat, feeling for a pulse, looking up and down the alley at the same time. The man was dead. Steam rose around him from the hot, wet sidewalk. Thunder rumbled on the other side of town as the storm went on its way down the coast.

Hatcher decided to get out of there. He turned and followed the old man into Thi Phatt Road. Hatcher flagged a cab and went back to the hotel. Tuk-tuks whipped in and out of the sidewalk-to-sidewalk traffic as the taxi crept across town toward the waterfront. That was all right with Hatcher. He needed the time to sort out the last fifteen minutes.

Obviously the old Chinese had been following Wol Pot.

Or following him.

He thought about the old Chinese in the swirling steam of the alley, aiming the gun at him, ready to kill until something changed his mind. What happened? Who was the old man and why did he murder Wol Pot? Not that the bastard didn’t deserve to be killed, or that there weren’t plenty of people around eager to do the job.

But what concerned him most was Wol Pot’s contention that Murph Cody and Thai Horse were one and the same, and that he was a heroin smuggler. Did he work for Tollie Fong and the Chiu Chaos? Did the Longhorn regulars know Murph Cody? The questions were still buzzing in his head when he got to the hotel.

‘I’ve got some information for you, sir,’ Flitcraft’s crisp voice said.

‘Let’s hear it, Sergeant,’ said Hatcher.

‘The bad news is that I struck out on the nicknames, Wonderboy and Corkscrew. Wilkie was First Cav, a line sergeant. Got a chestful of medals. No current address since his discharge. Earp was a full colonel in CRIP. Did four tours in Nam, retired in 1976. No current address.’

‘Uh-huh. How about the others?’

‘That’s when it gets interesting,’

‘What do you mean, “interesting”?’ asked Hatcher.

‘Riker, Gallagher, Potter and Early are all listed as missing in action and presumed dead.’

‘All four of them?’

‘Yes, sir. They all went missing in 1972. Here’s something else: the journalist, Paget? He disappeared the same day and in roughly the same place as Gallagher.’

‘Anything else?’

‘One more thing. Both Gallagher and Riker were in trouble when they disappeared.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

‘Riker for striking a fellow officer and Gallagher for grand theft. He ran a service club in S-town and was skimming off booze and cigarettes, then selling them on the black market.’

‘Flitcraft, you ought to get a medal.’

‘Thank you, sir. I’m still checking on Wonderboy and Corkscrew.’

‘Forget it. This is all I need.’

‘I might still turn up something on them.’

‘Don’t need it,’ whispered Hatcher.

‘Thank you, sir.’

Hatcher lay back down on the floor with his hands folded over his chest. His heart was racing. Suddenly the pieces of the jigsaw were beginning to fall in place. A picture was beginning to form in Hatcher’s head, but two major questions still plagued him.

How exactly did Murph Cody and Thai Horse fit into the puzzle?

And he still wasn’t sure whether Cody was dead or alive.

Perhaps the answer to those two questions lay at the end of the plane ride to Surat Thani

FONG

Daphne Chien lived in one of the high-rise apartments at the foot of Victoria Peak, its split-level, two-story living room looking across the harbor toward Kowloon. Its balcony was a jungle, dripping with plants and ferns.

She usually worked late in her office two blocks away on the top floor of one of the glass banking towers, leaving for home at about 7 P.M. On this day she was even later. The sun had already dropped behind the western mountains and the streetlights were burning when she took the elevator to the street, where her limousine was waiting. She was dressed as she usually dressed for work, in a man’s gray silk double-breasted suit, a dark blue shirt open at the collar with a red scarf tied around her throat.

As she got in the limo she was watched from a Ford car half a block away. It was equipped with a cellular phone. Before the limo left the curb, the man watching Daphne dialed her home phone number.

The phone in her apartment rang twice and stopped, one ring before the answering machine intercepted it. A moment later it rang again, this time only once.

Tollie Fong stood in the shadows of the apartment. He smiled. She was on her way. He went back up to the bedroom and checked it out. There were four long strips of silk tied to each corner of the bed. He drew a stiletto from his sleeve and placed it on the dresser next to a pair of pantyhose. He put the tape recorder on the nightstand beside the bed.

Then Tollie Fong went back down and stood behind the front door of the apartment and waited.

When Daphne came in, Fong moved so fast she was still reaching for the light switch when his powerful hands wrapped around her neck and his fingers pressed deep, felt the nerve, felt her stiffen and then go limp. He caught her before she hit the floor, lifted her, and carried her up the stairs to the bedroom. He laid her on the bed spread-eagled and tied her feet and hands with the silk cords. He turned on the tape recorder and picked up the stiletto and waited for her to regain consciousness.

THE HUNTERS

Old Scar was napping in a bog at the foot of a tall banyan tree when he heard the trucks coming. Earlier he heard the elephants, grunting and snorting and blowing dirt on themselves, but he ignored them. But then when the vans came and there was the sound of many voices, he sat up suddenly, grimacing and opening the ducts in his cheeks, lifting his nose and smelling the wind, but it came from behind him and he couldn’t get a whiff of the group that was perhaps two hundred yards away.

Old Scar knew he was up against dangerous enemies. No young buck tiger, this. This was a whole army. His yellow-green eyes flashed ferociously and his lips pulled back from his teeth in a fanged snarl as he strolled slowly and arrogantly through the trees, away from the vans and people and toward the stand of bamboo and tall grass west of the lake, a mile or so away’, where his fiery orange and black stripes would blend in with the tall, dry grass.

He wasn’t in a hurry. His shoulders and legs hurt. The arthritis was worse than usual this morning and he was hungry. And he was too old and tough to be scared of anything.

Fresh pugs led toward the lake_ The Thai guide, Quat, had found them an hour or so earlier. He laid his hand in one of the paw marks. The perimeters of the print were a good inch or two greater than the hand.

‘Cat’s on the prowl,’ Early told the hunters. ‘I sent a man on down to the village. The townsfolk will stay inside until this is over.’

‘What do you think?’ Earp asked.

‘Wind’s shifting,’ Early said, sniffing at the air like an animal. ‘If he gets downwind of us he could make a real chase out of this.’

Max Early stared from under the sagging brim of a khaki safari hat. He was a little under six feet tall with thick brown hair and a full beard. His khaki tank top clung tightly to a hard, muscular body, and he had thick, hard legs that strained his tennis shorts. His body was tanned and his beard bleached out by the relentless tropical sun.

He squatted down and, with a stick, sketched out a crude map in the dirt. The group gathered around, drinking beer and smoking and staring over his shoulder at the scribbling in the sand. Re explained the area to the hunters.

At the top of the map was their encampment, and at the bottom left, south and east of the camp was the lake and the village. Between the camp and the lake were two miles of jungle, which stretched east and west for about a mile. Toward the bottom of the map and west of the lake was a broad plain perhaps half a mile square. It was the danger spot, Early explained. At its edge was a bamboo thicket about fifty to seventy-five yards wide that twisted from the lake to the fields. The bamboo was fifteen to twenty feet high and very dense. Between it and the jungle there was a stretch of short buffalo grass followed by two hundred yards of tall elephant grass, which Early said was eight to ten feet high. The short buffalo grass and the elephant grass and bamboo were all handy hiding places for the big cat. Beyond the village and west of the thickets were cultivated fields.

‘We’re looking at roughly four square miles of brush and tree bays,’ Early said. ‘Just remember, he can climb a tree, burrow into a stump, lie absolutely motionless for hours in the tall grass —,

‘Is he likely to attack a man?’ interrupted a nervous Wonderboy.

‘He’s already eaten three — size isn’t going to stop him.’

‘How big we talking about here?’ Gallagher asked.

‘Upwards of five hundred pounds from the look of him and his pug size,’ Early answered. ‘Also he’s blind in his right eye and maybe little arthritic, which means he’s got a nasty temper in addition to being pissed off and on the run.’

‘Great,’ groaned Riker, peeling off his shirt. He was powerfully built, a hairy man with several scars streaking his belly and lower ribs. He slipped on a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses.

‘Just what the hell does all that add up to?’ he asked.

‘Five hundred pounds of bad cat,’ said Earp with a big grin. ‘He gets a leg up on you, Riker, this picnic could turn into a funeral.’

As Early had explained the plan of attack, two of the hunters would ride each of the three elephants. They would be spaced about a hundred yards apart. What Early called his ‘noise boys’ would walk between the chaangs, yelling, beating on pans, shaking up the old cat and keeping him on the run. Hopefully Old Scar would run toward the hunters on the ground who were to shoot only if they had a clear target with nobody in the field of fire. The elephant riders would shoot only in an emergency.

‘When you get to the south perimeter, spread out about three hundred yards apart but close enough to keep each other in sight,’ Early had advised them. ‘When we start the drive south toward the village, move toward us. Get on the inside of the bamboo but stay in the short buffalo grass. Don’t get in that chaang grass, you get lost in those thickets, you’re lunch for the cat. Or one of us could accidentally pop you off. When you get a shot, go for his body. He’ll be moving, so go for the mass.’

‘Won’t the elephants run the cat off?’ Riker had asked.

‘Elephants don’t scare tigers,’ said Early. ‘In the wild, they tolerate each other. But I saw a cat jump a twelve-foot bull elephant once and tear off half his ear.’

‘Does anything scare a tiger?’ asked Corkscrew.

Early thought for a moment, then said, quite seriously, ‘Not that I can think of. This guy’s old. He appears to be blind in one eye and he’s hungry and he’s slowed down some, that’s why’ he’s turned man- eater. But he’s smart, don’t kid yourself, and spookier than a pregnant cobra.’

‘In other words, unpredictable.’

‘Totally.’

They had drawn cards to see who would ride elephants and who would be the shooters on the ground. Melinda and Johnny Prophett were on one beast with a driver, W. T. and Early shared a second, and Gallagher and Riker rode the third. Potter, Wonderboy, Corkscrew and Hatch would be on foot.

As they piled in the van, Earp tossed Hatcher a half-smile.

‘Good luck, soldier,’ he said.

‘Same to you.’

The old van rattled across the lush and fertile South Thailand landscape. Breathtaking green fields bloomed on both sides of the road and fruit trees speckled the uneven countryside. There was a sense of endeavor and hard work about the area, probably because of the powerful beasts that worked the land. Domestic elephants were almost as prevalent as water buffalo. There was also a lot of places for the tiger to hide.

Hatcher checked the 375 H&H Early had loaned him, saying, ‘Kicks like a mule, but it’ll drop an elephant straight on his ass from two hundred yards.’

They drove the two miles across non-roads. In the midmorning sun, the village lay deserted. The doors of the hooches and thatched huts were closed. Wonderboy huddled up against the side of the van, clutching his rifle as though he were afraid it was going to fly away. Sweat streaked the strange black and white paint on his face. Hatcher could see the twisted burn-scarred skin beneath the makeup. He could almost smell Wonderboy’s fear.

‘Don’t worry, kid,’ Hatcher said. ‘I’ll keep an eye on you.’

‘I’m okay,’ the musician mumbled.

The four men spread out along the back end of the broad grassy area west of the lake but close enough to keep one another in view. Corkscrew and Potter were at one end of the stretch, Wonderboy and Hatcher at the other. They were in the open and the sun blazed down on them. Hatcher broke out in a sweat when he got out of the van.

Ahead of Hatcher was the thick wide stand of fifteen-foot-high bamboo. Through the cramped stalks, Hatcher could barely make out the short grass that stood waist-high on the other side of the bamboo stand.

The only sound was the buzzing of flies and insects. Not a bird twittered and the wind was barely more than a sigh, occasionally stirring the grass. Hatcher put on his sunglasses and walked cautiously along the edge of the bamboo, stopping every few feet to listen and look.

He was not far into the field when he heard the noise boys start their serenade. It was far away. Occasionally one of the elephants would add its voice to the chorus.

Hatcher looked to his left at Wonderboy, a small figure moving cautiously parallel to the bamboo thicket. The noise got louder as he approached the bamboo stand. He looked back at Wonderboy. The kid was standing in front of the towering stalks of bamboo, looking up at them in obvious wonderment.

Not paying attention, thought Hatcher, and subconsciously he began to walk toward Wonderboy.

Old Scar was hungry, but he followed his usual course, ambling down through the trees to the elephant grass. He was at the far end of the stand when he caught the scent of the men. They were between him and the lake. He lurked in the tall, reed-like grass. Then the clamor behind him got louder. Through the earth he could feel the heavy-footed elephants getting closer.

If he left the grass he would be in the open, which meant running through the rice fields.

Old Scar’s tail switched angrily, lie hissed, turned and skulked through the grass toward the lake, keeping his belly close to the ground so he wouldn’t give away his position. He found a dead tree and crawled behind it, peering out with his good eye through the naked branches, waiting. This was his territory. He had walked it out and sprayed it. He had nowhere else to go.

Wonderboy stood at the edge of the tall bamboo, marveling at how high and straight they grew. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it thumping in his ears. He remembered Max telling them to be extra careful in the bamboo thickets and the tall grass. The bamboo grew close together, so he could barely see between the stalks. Fearfully he entered the thicket, shouldering his way through it. He started singing to himself. Then he began singing aloud, but very low, scat-singing the chorus from ‘Suite: Judy Blue Eyes’:

‘Da da da da do. . . dat dat de da da do. .

The singing calmed his nerves. He decided to go through the bamboo to the edge of the short grass and wait. He could see only a few feet in front of him. Wonderboy had thought he was finished with taking risks, yet here he was, testing himself, stalking an angry, half-blind, man-eating five-hundred-pound cat that could jump out of nowhere at any moment. The sporting aspect of the hunt suddenly seemed stupid to him. It would be so much easier, he thought, to spot the tiger from the elephants and kill it.

Hatcher, too, moved cautiously through the bamboo. The noise boys and elephants were much closer now. It was pure cacophony. If the old cat was in there, he would soon make his move.

Hatcher was thinking about Wonderboy, wondering whether the kid was thinking smart. Scared as he was, he might just stumble in the grass. Grass could be deceiving. The kid could walk right up and step on the cat’s tail before he saw him. Hatcher broke through the bamboo stand to the short buffalo grass. Fifty yards on the other side was the tall grass, moving slightly with the light breeze.

Hatcher walked along the edge of the bamboo thicket toward Wonderboy with the waist-high grass swishing past him and insects swarming in his wake. He walked, stopped and listened, then went on.

He began to tense up. The noise boys and elephants were nearing the far side of the tall grass.

Through the twigs of the dead tree, Old Scar could see one of the elephants looming above the tall reeds and hear the thrashers beating on the pots and yelling although he could not see them. The old tiger was thirsty. He was hungry. He had lost his patience.

One of the big elephants started into the tall grass. Old Scar’s keen ears heard sounds other than the beating of pots and yelling, lie moved away from the tree stump, crawling on his belly, soundlessly moving through the grass toward the lake.

From atop his elephant, Max Early scanned the sea of tall elephant grass, a wide strip three hundred yards deep that stretched almost half a mile from the lake to the cassava fields. Beyond it was the strip of short grass and the tall bamboo. Below him on the ground, Quat was checking the ground, looking for the pugs of the rogue cat. He found the tracks leading into the grass and pointed toward the lake.

‘Anta rai,’ Quat said softy. ‘Seua, thaleh saap.’

‘He says it’s heading toward the lake and that’s dangerous,’ said Early. ‘I was hoping he’d break out of this grass into the open and run for it.’

Early blew a single sharp blast on a chrome whistle. It pierced the air, a sound higher than the clatter the noise boys were making. Everything stopped.

The elephants, spaced about a hundred yards apart, stopped and began pulling up tufts of grass with their trunks and eating them. Nobody moved. There wasn’t a sound. Then Early thought he heard something. He leaned forward, his sharp ears listening.

‘What the hell’s that?’ he said, half aloud.

‘You see something?’ Earp asked.

‘I hear something. Listen.’

They listened. Earp cocked his head to one side.

‘Is that somebody singing?’ Early asked.

‘Singing?’

‘I swear to God I hear somebody singing. Sounds like it’s coming from over there in the bamboo.’

‘Got to be Wonderboy,’ said Earp.

‘Is he nuts?’

‘He’s scared. Yell over there and tell him to shut up.’

‘Uh-uh. If the kid answers, he’ll pinpoint himself.’

‘The tiger isn’t after him.’

‘We don’t know what that tiger’s thinking.’

‘Something wrong?’ Riker called out.

Early held his hand up and put his fingers to his lips. He pointed to Riker and then swept his hand across the elephant grass and the low reeds toward the wide strip of bamboo. He urged his own beast straight ahead, peering through his glasses in the general direction of the sound he had heard.

‘Get ready,’ he said softly to Earp. We may have a situation on our hands.’

Hatcher was moving quickly down the edge of the bamboo strip toward Wonderboy when he heard the whistle. The noise men stopped beating their pans. He stopped and waited for a moment. It got deathly still.

Then he, too, heard the singing. Wonderboy was closer than he thought. And lie was somewhere in the bamboo thicket, a dangerous place to be. Hatcher doubled his pace, moving down the outer edge of the bamboo thicket until he could hear Wonderboy’s soft song somewhere nearby. He e:ntered the thicket, moving as quietly as he could toward the voice. The tall stalks of stiff bamboo clattered as he made his way through them toward Wonderboy.

Old Scar, too, was startled by the whistle. Then the noise stopped and the silence confused him. He stopped and listened, heard the elephants pulling up grass.

He heard the sound in front of him: ‘Do do do do da. . . dat dat do da da do. .

And he heard someone coming through the grass behind him. He waited, his muscles tightening. The elephants started moving again; he increased his pace.

Old Scar was spooked. He decided to go through the bamboo to the open field beyond and make a dash for it. His instincts told him to move as quietly as possible until he was in the open. There was activity all around now. Enemies were closing in on him.

He crept forward again, out of the tall elephant grass into the short stuff. Now he really hugged the ground, moving one paw in front of the other, stealthily, cautiously, slowly crawling toward the bamboo, moving away from whoever was coming up in the rear, moving away from the elephants, his good eye jumping nervously, checking the route as he crept toward the strange sound.

Early stopped his elephant again and scanned the grass with his binoculars. He stopped, freezing the glasses on one spot.

‘Something?’ Earp whispered.

‘Not sure .

Early watched the tall grass swaying in the wind. Then he saw one short stretch moving against the wind, almost imperceptibly, like a ripple in the ocean. The movement stopped. Then it moved again. Another four or five feet and stopped again.

‘Jesus,’ Early breathed, ‘there it is.’

‘Where?’ Earp asked.

‘There, moving toward the bamboo in the short grass. Once it gets near the bamboo, if it sees anything it’ll probably charge.’

Early handed the binoculars to Earp and directed the elephant toward the movement. The big animal lumbered forward as Earp peered nervously through the glasses.

‘I don’t see it,’ Earp said.

‘Right in front of us, about a hundred yards. Watch the buffalo grass,’ Earp said.

Then Earp saw the ripple, the slight movement through the short reed-like grass, then it stopped again.

‘Jesus, you’re right,’ Earp said.

‘Where the hell is Wonderboy?’ Early asked.

The elephant moved quickly toward the thicket.

‘Can’t we start the racket again, scare it off?’ asked Earp.

‘No, none of that,’ Early snapped. ‘That cat’s crazy. That cat’s a Mexican jumping bean. We shake him up now, he might just charge out of pure cussedness.’

Early’s voice was clear and clean: ‘Wonderboy, stop singing. Back out of that bamboo strip real slow. Don’t answer me, just do it. Now!’

‘Shit,’ Hatcher said, hearing Early’s caution. But he didn’t stop. He didn’t have time to stop. He kept moving ahead.

Old Scar, too, heard the man yell and stopped. Then he saw movement a few yards away. His lips peeled back from his fangs and his nostrils sniffed the air. The noise stopped. He kept moving forward.

Through his good eye he saw movement in the bamboo. It was moving away from him and he followed

it. Behind him the elephants were picking up their pace. The ground trembled as they stomped through the tall grass. Old Scar moved faster, creeping toward the tall, hard shafts and the open fields on the other side.

Then he saw the two-legged creature, a strange- looking animal with a face that was half black and half white. It was frightened. Old Scar could smell his fear. The creature was backing into the bamboo that stood between Old Scar and freedom. He was carrying a stick. The tiger’s claws extended, the muscles in his shoulders rippled as he got ready to charge.

He crept out of the grass and into the bamboo.

‘Christ, the cat’s in the bamboo,’ Early said, still watching the movement through the binoculars.

‘Where the hell is Wonderboy?’ Earp said.

‘He’s in there, too, I can see the stuff moving. The cat’s on to him.’

‘Oh, Jesus,’ Earp said.

‘What the fuck,’ Early said, refocusing the glasses. ‘Is Hatch in there too?’

‘Who the hells knows?’

Riker and Gallagher were veering toward them, and so was the elephant Melinda and Prophett were riding closing in on the bamboo thicket.

Hatcher started to run toward Wonderboy, who had stopped singing. He plunged through the bamboo, which clattered after him as he charged through it, breaking off stalks, stumbling, keeping his rifle pointed up so he wouldn’t accidentally get .off a shot and hit Wonderboy.

Old Scar, too, was moving faster, creeping through the stalks of bamboo, trying to move without revealing his position. He could see the strange creature ahead of him, backing up, looking around wildly. The creature with the black-and-white face was twenty yards away. Old Scar was accustomed to hunting in the bamboo thickets. He could see the creature, but it could not see Scar.

The strange creature stumbled, lost his balance, turned away from him, thrashing about, trying to stay on his feet.

The big cat charged.

Hatcher saw Wonderboy falter and fall. He heard the bamboo stalks cracking off before he saw the cat. He ran toward Wonderboy, who was floundering around, trying to get in a sitting position.

‘Stay down,’ Hatcher barked in his shattered voice. ‘He’s charging.’

‘Oh God no!’ Wonderboy screamed.

Hatcher was ten feet away from the kid when the tiger broke loose of the bamboo stalks. He threw the 375 H&H up to his shoulder, aimed for the chest of the powerful beast as it charged closer and squeezed off a shot.

Ping!

The rifle misfired.

Hatcher didn’t lose a beat. He threw the rifle at the rogue and dived on top of Wonderboy, grabbing his gun and rolling on his side. Nearby he heard an elephant trumpet, felt the ground shake as the big creature charged toward them. But he did not let that distract him. He was on his side and the big tiger leaped from ten feet away, its open mouth showing dripping fangs, its one eye gleaming ferociously.

He had time for one shot. He swung the rifle up and fired from the waist straight into the tiger’s face.

Old Scar felt the heat of the explosion, was blinded by the white light, and a millisecond later felt the bullet explode just above his good eye, cracking the skull, burning into his head, searing his brain and snapping his head back.

His forelegs collapsed and he went down, rolling over, snapping off a path of bamboo one after another. They came showering down on top of Hatcher and Wonderboy. The tiger lay five feet away, its enormous mouth still open. A pitiful cry-growl escaped from its throat and it shuddered and began to stiffen.

Beneath him, Hatcher could feel Wonderboy trembling. He got to his knees and looked down at the musician, who seemed to be trying to dig a hole in the ground.

‘It’s over, kid,’ Hatcher whispered. ‘It’s okay.’

‘No, no,’ Wonderboy cried,, all legs and hands in a tight little pile.

Another shower of bamboo stalks fell around Hatcher, and he heard one of the elephants trumpet almost on top of him. He turned, and stared straight into the muzzles of two guns — Early’s and Earp’s. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Almost as if he could perceive in slow motion, Hatcher saw Early’s finger tightening on his trigger.

My God, he’s going to shoot me! Hatcher thought as he spun away and ducked and heard the rifle boom.

Behind him he heard the tiger scream again and, spinning around, saw it, half n its feet, take the shot high in the shoulder. It screamed once more and fell dead.

‘Told you not to go for the head shot,’ Early said.

THAI HORSE

Early’s small house was at the end of a narrow, hard-packed dirt road. The road wound through dark, verdant foliage, which choked its shoulders, casting it in deep shadow. Rainbow-streaked macaws and parrots, startled by the van, had insulted the men with angry squawks and shrieks as they returned from the hunt. The thatch-roofed house had a wide porch around three of its sides. The sweet odor of cassava from nearby fields permeated the air.

The big cat had been strung upside down by its legs from a small tree. Several women from the village the animal had terrorized had gathered at Early’s house to celebrate Hatcher’s kill with dancing and a feast. An elderly Oriental man was stooped over a large pot of Thai stew cooking on an open fire.

Hatcher had been coldly quiet since the end of the hunt. He sat alone on the porch watching the locals celebrate the end of the old rogue. The women portrayed the hunters in the impromptu dance while one woman played Old Scar. Lithe, her face painted yellow, she danced on all fours, darting about as the hunters pursued her.

Infuriated in the tense moments after the kill, Hatcher had snatched the bolt out of the 375 H&H and tossed it to Early.

‘Next time you loan a gun to someone maybe you ought to make sure it works,’ Hatcher had snapped angrily.

Early had turned the bolt over in his hand, carefully examining it before looking back at Hatcher.

‘The bloody firing pin’s cracked,’ he had said with genuine surprise, thinking it was an act.

‘Is that a fact,’ Hatcher growled sarcastically.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Early said edgily. ‘It worked fine this morning, I test-fired the piece myself.’

‘Wonderboy and I could both be dead right now because of that weapon.’

‘I’m sorry, okay? You think I wanted you to miss the cat?’ Early said. ‘Hell, that’s ridiculous, how could I have known you would get the kill shot?’

‘You’re being paranoid, Hatcher,’ said Earp.

‘Yeah,’ said Riker. ‘If we wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.’

Having reacted with more passion than was his custom, Hatcher had shut up and now he sat alone deep in thought. He did not see Wonderboy approach him from the side of the house.

‘Mr. Hatcher?’ he said. ‘It is Hatcher, isn’t it?’ The musician, who had repaired his streaked face with fresh paint, stood against the wall of the house with his hands in his pockets.

‘That’s right,’ the whispering man croaked.

‘You saved my life,’ Wonder boy said. ‘And I, uh don’t know how to thank you. But I want you to know nobody was out to get you.’

‘You’d have done the same for me,’ said Hatcher. ‘No, no,’ Wonderboy said, shaking his head. ‘I choked, man. It wasn’t just that I was scared, I couldn’t pull the trigger,’

‘Did that ever happen before?’

Wonderboy stared off at the dead tiger from behind his mask, and after a few seconds he nodded.

‘So forget it,’ said Hatcher. ‘You can live forever without ever touching another gun.’

‘That isn’t it.’

‘Then, what is it?’

Wonderboy took his hands out of his pockets. He wrapped them around his chest, hugging himself as if he were cold.

‘Survival.’

‘Survival,’ Hatcher repeated flatly.

‘Hell, if it ain’t one war, it’s another.’

‘You won’t have to go to any more wars, Wonderboy.’

‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I don’t know how you thank someone who’s saved your life. The Japanese have a word for it, but I don’t remember what it is.’

‘Ongaeshi,’ Hatcher said.

‘Yeah, that’s it. It means, you know, like a big debt.’

‘It means an obligation to repay,’ said Hatcher.

‘Yeah. Well, ongaeshi , Mr. Hatcher.’

Hatcher stepped closer to Wonderboy and leaned against the wall beside him. ‘Would you like to try?’ his hoarse voice asked.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Who is Thai Horse, Wonderboy?’

Wonderboy stared off at the other regulars on the other side of the yard. ‘What’s a Thai Horse?’ he asked, still watching the dancers.

‘Ongaeshi, Wonderboy.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘Let’s try another one. Is Murphy Cody alive?’

‘Who?’

‘Murph Cody.’

‘What do you want with him?’ Wonderboy asked. ‘What’d you say his name is?’

‘Cody,’ Hatcher said softly.

‘Yeah, Cody.’

‘I have a message for him.’

‘A message?’

‘That’s all there is to it.’

Wonderboy nodded slowly and, moving away from Hatcher toward the rest of the group and not looking at him, said, ‘Well, if I should run into somebody by that name I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.’

Wonderboy walked away. The dancers had finished their musical drama and were fawning over the regulars. Earp was chatting with the dancer who had portrayed the tiger, and Wonderboy leaned over and spoke softly into his ear. Earp looked over at Hatcher and then, taking the yellow-faced dancer by the arm, led her across the yard to Hatcher.

‘This is Namtaan,’ Earp said. ‘She wants to meet the great white hunter. Namtaan, this is Hatcher.’

‘How do you do,’ Hatcher said.

‘It is a pleasure,’ she said. ‘So you are the tiger killer.’ ‘We all had a hand in it.’

‘And did everyone have a hand in saving Wonderboy’s life? You are too modest, Mr. Hatcher.’ She looked up at him with penetrating eyes.

‘It’s not modesty,’ Hatcher said, looking at Earp. ‘Everybody here depends on everybody else. It’s something I missed in the war. My job was a very solitary one.’

‘That is very sad,’ she said.

‘Uh-huh,’ he growled with a shrug. ‘Well, we Westerners have a saying, “You’re never too old to learn.”

‘There’s the other side of that .com,’ said Earp. “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

Hatcher smiled. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘take your pick.’

‘He says you asked him about an old Thai legend.’

‘Oh? What legend was that?’

‘The legend of the Thai Horse.’

‘He was only partly right. I wasn’t talking about the old Thai Horse legend, I was talking about the new Thai Horse legend.’

‘The new Thai Horse legend?’

‘I’m looking for one who calls himself Thai Horse,’ Hatcher replied, staring straight into her dark brown eyes.

‘I do not understand,’ she said_

‘I think Mr. Earp does,’ Hatcher said.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Earp. ‘Why don’t we stop kidding each other,’ Hatcher said bluntly. ‘I was told that a man named Murphy Cody calls himself Thai Horse.’

‘Cody was killed in the war,’ Earp said, almost too casually.

‘Maybe not,’ Hatcher answered.

‘And why would he do this? Call himself Thai Horse?’

‘Because he buys and sells heroin. He kills others and steals it from them. He buys babies and kills them and smuggles dope in their bodies.’

Namtaan looked at Hatcher for a few moments, then turned abruptly and entered the house. Earp followed her, stopping at the door.

‘C’mon,’ he said to Hatcher. ‘She won’t bite.’

The interior of the small house was dark and cool. The windows and shutters were closed against the early afternoon sun and an air conditioner purred softly somewhere. Sunlight slanted through the slats in the shutters, casting harsh slivers on the plank flooring. She sat down on an ancient, battered sofa.

‘Sit down,’ she said.

Earp leaned against a table sipping his drink. Hatcher sat down on the opposite end of the couch.

‘Who is this Cody?’ she asked.

‘Why are you so interested?’

‘Please, cooperate with me for a few minutes,’ she said almost plaintively.

As Hatcher and Namtaan talked, the other regulars started drifting into the room. Prophett and Melinda sat quietly in a corner, Prophett sprawled loosely in a chair, making aimless little marks on the floor with the toe of his good foot. Riker leaned in the doorway, drinking a beer, and Gallagher sat on the arm of a chair with his arms folded across his chest. Hatcher tried to ignore them.

‘Murph Cody is the man I came to Thailand to find,’ he said emphatically. ‘I’m only interested in Thai Horse as it relates to him.’

‘Why do you seek him?’

‘It’s personal.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘We were friends a long time ago.’

‘Is that why you are looking for him?’

Hatcher thought about the question for a moment, then said, ‘That’s part of it.’

‘Who told you Cody called himself Thai Horse?’ Earp asked.

As Hatcher’s eyes became more accustomed to the room he became aware that there was another person there. The old Chinese who had been attending the cook pots had also entered the room. He was a dim figure, an old, stooped man sitting in the darkest corner of the room.

‘A man named Wol Pot, a North Vietnamese POW commandant during the war. His real name was Taisung and he ran a camp called the Huie-kui in Laos.’

‘And how did he know Cody?’

‘I think Cody was one of his prisoners.’

‘I told you,’ Earp repeated, ‘Cody was killed in a plane crash in 1972.’

‘And how would you know that?’ Hatcher asked.

‘I read it somewhere,’ Earp snapped back.

‘A common misapprehension, said Hatcher.

‘Misapprehension?’ Namtaan said.

‘A lie.’

‘Why do you think so?’ she asked.

‘Because it was to Wol Pot’s advantage to turn up Cody. He wanted a visa to the United States. Cody was to be his trade.’

‘And why would Cody be that important?’

‘His father was general of the army during the war.’

‘Perhaps this informant was playing a game.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘But you don’t think so?’

‘No.’

‘You give such quick answers, Mr. Hatcher, I hope you don’t feel like I am interrogating you,’ she said with a smile.

‘You are interrogating me,’ he said.

‘This is all a lot of bull,’ Earp piped in suddenly. ‘I don’t think so,’ said Hatcher. ‘I think Murphy Cody is alive.’

‘Because of what that greaseball told you?’

‘That has something to do with it.’

‘I don’t believe a word of this,’ said Earp. ‘He’s Sloan’s man.’

‘I’m not Sloan’s anything. He hired me to do a job.’

‘Christ, he admits it!’ said Earp.

Hatcher tried to ignore them. ‘What have you got against Sloan?’ he asked.

‘We think he hired you to turn up Cody and kill him,’ said Earp. ‘Do you deny that?’

Hatcher was stymied. What Earp said was true.

‘No, I don’t deny it,’ Hatcher said.

The honesty of his answer obviously surprised everyone in the room.

‘But,’ he went on, ‘I didn’t accept the job on those terms.’

‘What were your terms?’ Earp said with a sneer.

‘That I would find Cody — if he was alive — and deliver a message to him.’

Earp turned away in disgust and shook his head. ‘Jesus!’ he said.

‘Listen to me, Wyatt. This started out to be a simple job. Find Murphy Cody and deliver a message, that’s all. In Bangkok, Sloan changed the signals on me.’

‘Earp whirled to face him. ‘How?’

‘He wanted me to make a judgment call. If Cody was mixed up in something — embarrassing, he implied I should get rid of him. Sloan never says anything directly. He’s a master of innuendo. And incidentally, I have as much right as anybody to hate Sloan. He framed me and I spent three years in a Central American scum hole called Los Boxes.’

‘And you still took this job?’

‘That’s right. I figured if anybody could find Cody I could.’

‘And you accepted those terms, right?’

‘I had to make a choice: stay with the mission and try to find Cody, or take a walk, in which case Sloan would have brought in some cold-blooded bastard to do the job.’

‘What makes you different? You once killed for him on a daily basis.’

‘Just like you did in CRIP, right?’ said Hatcher angrily. ‘I was a soldier just like you were. I did what I was ordered to do.’

The remark shut Earp up for a moment. He looked away.

‘You know I’m not stupid,’ Hatcher said, sweeping his arm around the room. ‘If I wanted to kill Cody, I sure as hell wouldn’t do it when I’m outnumbered ten to one.’

‘You seem pretty convinced that Cody and this baby-killing dope smuggler are one and the same.’

‘I’m not sure what I believe about Thai Horse,’ Hatcher said. ‘What I do believe is that Wol Pot, or Taisung as you call him, knew Cody was alive.’

‘Anything else?’

‘The rest is all conjecture. What I call the equation.’

‘The equation?’ said Gallagher.

‘Like a mathematical equation, except that you use information instead of numbers.

He looked around the room at the rest of the regulars.

‘For instance, I know Wol Pot was really a Vietnamese prison commandant named Taisung. I know Wol Pot claimed that Murph Cody is alive in Bangkok. And I also know that Wol Pot was probably telling the truth.’

‘Why?’ asked Early.

‘Another part of the equation. Eventually Wol Pot would have had to produce Cody to get his visa. To reveal himself was risky because the U.S. could have found out about his past. But he was on the run, and his only chance was to produce Cody. Without him, he didn’t have anything. It would have been like offering to produce — Elvis Presley.’

‘Anything else?’ Riker asked skeptically.

‘Yeah, there is something else. I also know that Johnny Prophett’s real name is Paget, and that he and Gallagher, and Benny Potter, Riker, and Max Early were all reported missing in action at about the same time in roughly the same area of Vietnam. I’m not sure, but probably Wonderboy and Corkscrew could be included on that list.

‘So, the equation tells me that it’s possible all of them were captured by the VC and were in Wol Pot’s prison camp. And since Wol Pot knew Cody, I assume he was there, too.’

Riker snorted. ‘You got a lot of guts,’ he said.

‘Any more to that equation?’ Corkscrew asked.

‘One more thing. Wol Pot also claims that Cody is a killer and a dope smuggler who calls himself Thai Horse. I also heard from a source in the government that there’s a rumor on the street this Thai Horse is a drug dealer.’

‘And what’s the old equation tell you about that one?’ Riker asked.

‘Perhaps I should take you off the spot, Mr. Hatcher,’ said Namtaan, tapping her breast. I am the one known as Thai Horse.’

Hatcher’s surprise was genuine, so much so that Namtaan broke into a smile for the first time since they had entered the house.

‘I did not mean to shock you,’ she said.

Hatcher quickly recovered his composure. He started to laugh. ‘I don’t believe a word of that,’ he said.

‘Nevertheless, it is true,’ she said.

‘I gave her the name, Hatcher,’ Johnny Prophett said.

‘Yeah, everybody knows that,’ said Gallagher.

‘I don’t know it,’ Hatcher said hoarsely.

‘You don’t know a helluva lot, soldier, but you sure do a lot of guessing,’ Earp said.

Hatcher stared down at Pai. His recognition of her had come gradually. At first he had thought she was someone he had met before, someone from the past. He wanted to see her without the facial makeup — unlike Wonderboy, whose painted face was his reality.

‘Okay, I’ll try one more,’ Hatcher said, staring at Namtaan. ‘I’m guessing your name is Pai.’

‘My name is Namtaan.’

‘Sure. But it was once Pai. Fifteen years ago in Vietnam. You were Cody’s lady fair.’

‘That is a nice way of saying it.’

‘I have a picture of you taken in 1972. It was obvious you were devoted to him, and I’m sure you still are.’

‘Why are you looking for him, Mr. Hatcher?’ she said, quite earnestly.

‘Like I said, I have a message for him.’

‘You have come all this way to deliver a message?’ she said with disbelief.

‘That’s right.’

‘And Cody was your friend?’ said Namtaan.

‘That was a long time ago. But old friendships die hard.’

He stopped, and she continued to stare deeply into his face.

‘And if Cody was this baby killer, what would you do then?’ she asked.

It was a question that had gnawed at Hatcher since his last conversation with Sloan, a decision he had wanted to avoid. Now he had to make it.

‘I didn’t come here to judge Murphy Cody,’ Hatcher said. ‘I’ll admit the thought I might have to kill Cody has crossed my mind a lot in the last few days. But no matter what he’s done, I’m through playing judge, jury and executioner. I’ve had enough of killing. Somebody else can do the dirty work from now on. I came to deliver a message, period, and that’s what I intend to do.’

In the gloom of the dark room, the regulars were all quiet. There was no doubting the sincerity with which Hatcher had spoken.

‘And who is this message from?’ Namtaan finally asked.

‘That’s between Cody and me.’

‘There are ways we can find out,’ said Earp.

‘Not from me,’ Hatcher growled.

Riker chuckled at the remark. ‘Son of a bitch, I’m beginning to believe that,’ he said.

‘You feel that responsible to this Cody, do you?’ Namtaan asked.

‘The message is very personal. I’ll make it face-to-face or not at all.’

He suddenly turned toward the old figure in the corner, squinting his eyes and peering through the gloom at him. The last time Hatcher had seen the old man, he had been backing away from him in an alley in Bangkok after killing Wol Pot.

‘This old gentleman killed Wol Pot. He also had a clean shot at me, started to take it, and changed his mind. I’ve been asking myself why ever since.’

‘And what did you decide?’ Johnny Prophett asked.

‘Aw, c’mon,’ Hatcher whispered, staring across the dark room at him. ‘None of you would’ve let a stranger do your dirty work. Whatever reason you had to kill Wol Pot, and I can think of a lot of them, if it was to be done, one of you would have done the trick. It’s not your style to give the job to an old man.’

‘That’s very astute,’ Earp said.

‘So the answer is, he’s not an old man. He’s one of you.’

He turned back to the old man.

‘Right, Polo?’ he whispered.

The stooped Chinese stared across the room at Hatcher. Then he started to chuckle. He stood up, and then he stood erect, adding another three inches to his height. He limped across the room toward Hatcher.

‘Well, I’m sure as hell older. I haven’t heard that nickname since the academy, Hatch,’ said Murphy Cody.

THE SECRET OF HUIE-KUI

Hatcher felt a sudden rush of excitement. He had not been sure until that moment that Cody vas really alive. Now, looking at his old friend, he felt a sense of relief and joy.

Namtaan opened the shutters. Sunlight invaded the room, filling its dark corners.

‘Jesus, Polo, I’m glad you’re alive,’ Hatcher said. ‘I don’t remember you as being so tough,’ Cody said. ‘I didn’t remember you with white hair,’ Hatcher whispered with a smile, trying to break the tension.

‘Part of the act,’ Cody said. Every wife is very good at makeup and disguise. My real heir still has a little color to it.’

‘What happened to your leg?’

‘Tore it up when I fell out of my plane. How about your box?’

‘Walked into a gun butt.’

‘Funny how simple stories become after a while,’ Cody said. ‘With time, an hour-long story is reduced to a sentence.’

He seemed taller than Hatcher remembered and thinner. Whatever bad cards had been dealt to Murphy Cody through the years had taken a toll, although the powdered beard and age lines added illusion to reality.

‘Look,’ said Hatcher, ‘if you think you can trust me, I’d like to have a couple of minutes in private.’

Cody thought about that for just a moment, then turned to the regulars.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Leave us alone for a minute, please. Namtaan, you stay.’

The regulars scuffled out of the room.

‘I’ve thought a lot about you through the years,’ Cody said, leaning against the windowsill, and stared out across the fields, and then he chuckled. ‘We saw some good days together, didn’t we?’

‘That’s a fact,’ Hatcher said.

‘Remember that New Year’s Eve? We went to New York, both ended up in bed with that girl, what was her name?’

Hatcher had to think for a minute before he remembered. ‘Linda.’

‘Yeah, Linda.’

‘A very compassionate soul, Linda.’

‘Wasn’t she, though,’ said Cody’. He turned to face Hatcher. ‘You know, I’ve owed you an apology for a long time.’

‘You don’t owe me anything, Polo.’

‘I had dinner in Saigon with my- dad about a month before I went down. The last time I saw him. He told me you were in Nam working undercover for him and had been for a couple of years. I felt about an inch tall, remembering what I said that night in San Diego. I guess my mouth ran a lot faster than my brains in those days. For what it’s worth, I apologize.’

‘Thanks. That means a lot to me.’

‘You’re a persistent son of a bitch, you know.’

‘I’ve been told that.’

‘So what’s the message, Hatch?’ Cody asked seriously.

‘It’s from your father.’

Cody was surprised. ‘My father knows I’m alive?’ he said.

‘That’s what I was sent over here to determine.’

‘Forget it,’ Cody said. ‘Let the dead stay dead.’

‘There’s no way to put this gently,’ said Hatcher. ‘Your father’s dying of cancer.’

Cody was jarred. He stared into space, then sucked in his lower lip. His eyebrows bunched together. ‘Oh Jesus,’ he said, and his shoulders suddenly sagged and the middle went out of him and he reached out and leaned against the window shutters. The seams in his face grew deeper. After it sank in for a full minute, he asked, ‘How long?’

‘Six months, maybe, if he’s real lucky.’

‘Oh God . . .‘ The words choked off in his throat. He lowered his head and tears ran down his cheeks. Pai stood beside him and put her arm around his waist.

‘Y’know, I never thought I’d see him again, I took that for granted. I just never thought about . . . that someday . .

‘He doesn’t care what you’ve done or what you’re doing,’ Hatcher said huskily. He just wants to know you’re alive, to see you once before he dies.’

‘God,’ Cody said. He wiped his face, and the age lines painted on it by his wife came off on his hand, leaving behind the true furrows of age and hard times. He stared out the window for a very long time. Neither Pai nor Hatcher said anything.

Finally Cody said, ‘Funny, isn’t it, how things you thought were important suddenly become — insignificant. All my life I had to toe die mark. Being Buffalo Bill’s son wasn’t easy. I couldn’t fail at anything —, He stopped for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘that’s not fair, I didn’t allow myself to fail at anything. It was in my head. I mean in my head the finger was always pointing at me from the time I was a kid. It wasn’t that he said anything to me. He didn’t push me, he didn’t have to, he was always there like a — like the giant in the woods you’re scared of when you’re a kid. When I decided to go to Annapolis instead of the Point, it almost killed him. Shit, he went berserk. Here I was just trying to do something on my own, but, Christ, it was the ultimate insult to him. He ordered me to go to the Point, and when I refused he tried to get my appointment to Annapolis withdrawn. But it was too late.’

Hatcher remembered that night when Cody had torn up his room in a drunken rage because he was alone at Christmas.

‘Hell,’ Hatcher whispered, ‘that was twenty-five years ago.’

‘Twenty, fifty, no difference, lie never forgot it. And he never let me forget it. That decision to go Navy clouded our relationship from then on. Maybe it still clouds it.’

‘Doesn’t much matter anymore,’ Hatcher said.

‘It does to me,’ Cody said in a faraway voice.

Cody continued to look out die window, shaking his head, clinging to Pai.

‘Look, Polo, I can’t say anything for Sloan, and I don’t know what the hell Porter’s motives were,’ said Hatcher. ‘Your father doesn’t give a tinker’s damn what happened or what you’re doing. He’s dying, for God’s sake, he wants to say good-bye. My job is to set up a meeting somewhere safe so you can see each other once more.’

‘What irony,’ said Cody. ‘As Prophett would say, two warriors facing each other across the river and no way to say good-bye.’

‘His abstract poetry eludes me,’ Hatcher snapped with a touch of irritation.

‘Don’t you get it?’ said Cody. ‘As far as the world is concerned, we’re all dead. In Prophett’s metaphor, we all crossed over the river. We can’t go home because there’s no home to go to. And some of us couldn’t go home if we wanted to. You know about Riker and Gallagher?’

‘I know they were both in big trouble when they disappeared. I assume Prophett can’t go back because he’s a hopeless junkie, you can tell by looking at him. Wonderboy — he’s learned to live with his face. But you, Corkscrew, Potter, Max Early —‘

‘It all started back before Nam. Hell, my dad and the admiral arranged my marriage like a couple of feudal kings arranging a wedding for the good of the realm. It was like living in a strait-jacket, my wife and I were barely civil. The old man was over here. So I volunteered for the Black Ponies.’

‘In the end it all came down on Cody,’ Pai quietly interrupted him. ‘He had volunteered for the Black Ponies so nobody could say he was looking for an easy time of it. The losses were like snakes in his head, I could see it every day.’

‘It wasn’t just me,’ Cody said with a touch of bitterness. ‘It was the mission. It’s always the fucking mission. You set out to do what you have to do regardless of the cost. But then you begin to wonder.

Hell, is the mission right or wrong? You probably don’t understand that, Hatch.’

‘More than you might think,’ Hatcher said.

‘The final irony is I became one of the losses. That morning I had picked up a letter for John Rossiter, my gunner. But I forgot to give it to him. I never carried any ID — shit, I knew if I went down and they knew who I was, who my father was, then school was out. So all I had was that letter and Rossiter burning to a crisp, the whole jungle afire behind me. I saw that chopper coming in and I thought, God, I’m gonna get out of this. Then suddenly it turned around and just — flew away.

‘Then the bullets started hitting around me, the fire was all over — so I threw away my dog tags. Next thing I knew, I had my hands up and they were frisking me and they found that letter and all of a sudden I was Gunner’s Mate John Rossiter.

‘Riker was the first to recognize me. But he kept mum, they all decided to keep mum. But I figured the least I could do was act like the ranking officer.’

‘He tried negotiating with Taisung,’ Namteen said. ‘To get medicine for Wonderboy and morphine for Johnny and keep Max out of the hole so he would not go crazy.’

‘And food, just food,’ Cody said. ‘I became the camp negotiator, the pimp. The fuckee. If Prophett needed heroin, I sold a piece of myself for heroin. If Wonderboy needed medicine, another piece for medicine. Another piece to keep Max out of the hole so he wouldn’t go stark raving mad. I was Taisung’s slave.’

‘The trouble was, I really didn’t have anything to trade for,’ Cody said. ‘And then . .

‘And then?’ Hatcher repeated.

‘And then Pai came to us,’ Cody said.

Unsure whether Cody was alive or dead, Pai had set out to find him. She knew only to go northwest and northwest she went. In Vietnam she was Vietnamese. In Cambodia, she was Cambodian. In Laos, she became Laotian. Wherever the was, she smiled and talked and listened. She worked when she had to for food and then moved on. She waded through the rice paddies, dodged the Khmer Rouge, slept in trees to avoid wild animals, almost died twice with fever.

She kept going, crossed the Annimitique, found the remains of one camp the telltale holes dug in the ground, the remnants of bamboo cell doors — devoured by vines and ground crawlers. The skeletons. She moved on, encouraged and discouraged at the same time.

And then one day she heard the voices — the unmistakable profanity of GIs — and she crept through the jungle grass and saw the camp and that night she crept up to the holes in the ground they called cells and softly caned his name as she crept from one to the other and finally she heard Cody’s unbelieving voice answer, ‘Pai?’ and she lay across the crisscrossed bamboo doors, reached down and felt his hand take hers.

‘Oh, Cody,’ she whispered through her tears, ‘at last I have found you.’

It had taken her six months to get to the Huie-kui.

‘Oh, Cody, at last I have found you,’ Cody repeated her words. ‘God, I can’t tell you how I felt at that moment’

He stopped and swallowed hard and then said, ‘And finally. . . I had something to offer Taisung.’

He whispered as if he feared the words would turn to ashes in his mouth, and they hung in the air along with all their terrible implications.

‘It was my choice,’ Pai said in her soft voice. ‘I wanted most to keep Cody alive, to keep them all alive. No one asked me to do what I did.’

‘And I didn’t stop her,’ said Cody, turning and staring straight at Hatcher, and the expression on his face said all that needed to be said about what living had cost him and the woman he loved.

‘We stayed alive, most of us anyway. Jaimie Solomon was eaten up with cancer. He got back to the States. Joe Binder died in the camp, and Sammy Franklin died of malnutrition before Pai ever found us.’

‘Jaimie Solomon?’ Hatcher said, remembering the note that had been left on the Wall.

‘The main thing is, Pai kept us there,’ said Cody. ‘Taisung didn’t send us to Hanoi. We honestly believed that if we went to Hanoi it was all over.’

‘I seduced Taisung,’ Pai said, staring at Hatcher’s feet. ‘I went downriver and brought him liquor, cigarettes, everything he needed to make life easy for him. Then I brought him China White.’

‘That was my idea,’ said Cody. ‘Hook the son of a bitch. Once he was hooked he’d do anything to get a fix. Johnny Prophett had the connection and Pai was free to move around.’

‘First, a little for the nose,’ said Pai. ‘Then the needle.’

‘Then we had the son of a bitch,’ said Cody.

Earp appeared in the doorway drinking a beer.

‘Everything okay?’ he said.

‘Come on in,’ Cody answered. Earp entered the small room and leaned against the wall.

‘Jaimie left you a note,’ said Hatcher.

‘A note? Where?’

‘At the Wall in Washington, the Vietnam memorial. He thanked you for Thai Horse. Now I know what he meant. He was talking about the Thai Horse that led the fallen warriors to heaven.’

‘That’s right. It was Pai who led us out of that hellhole into Bangkok,’ Cody said. ‘That’s why Johnny called her Thai Horse.’

‘The war had been over almost a year, and Taisung was still holding them,’ Earp said. ‘That’s where I came into it. Hanoi was on to Taisung. He was going to run for it and leave us there with a handful of guards. They probably would have killed us. But Pai offered a trade-out. She’d set up an escape and he could come out with the boys. I was living in Bangkok and helped set up the escape route and the boats.’

‘We should have killed Taisung ‘when we had the chance,’ said Cody, ‘but he was too quick for us. He stole one of the boats and made a break.’

‘And you just stayed here in Bangkok?’ Hatcher said to Cody.

‘That’s right,’ Cody said. ‘During the years I was a prisoner, things happened things that could never be explained properly.’ Cody stopped ‘with a sigh, then went on, ‘When we finally escaped into Thailand in late ‘76, I found out I was officially dead. The insurance was paid, my wife had remarried. My kids had a new father. Me? I had Pai and a chance to start over. What was there to go back to, Hatch? I decided to stay dead. When we first got out I used to fantasize about sneaking back just to get a look at the kids. They were one and two when I left, still one and two in my head — they’re in high school now. Well, so much for fantasy. Hell, I don’t even have a passport.’

‘And the others?’ Hatcher asked.

‘Well, we had Gallagher, who was looking at five to ten years for grand theft, and Riker, who was facing a court-martial for striking an officer. ‘You know Johnny Prophett’s problem. He and Melinda stayed here because dope is inexpensive and accessible. That’s when Sweets and Wyatt started the Longhorn. Tombstone just kind of grew out of it.’

‘How about the rest of them? Corkscrew, Potter, Max Early?’

Earp said, ‘When we got out, Early called home to Utah. The phone was disconnected, the house was sold, his wife and two kids were long gone. What the hell did he have to go home to? Corkscrew? And ex-Detroit pimp. Bangkok was heaven compared to that. Besides, the only family he had was his brother and he was killed on that ridge. And Potter? What was his option — a scratch farm in Arkansas and a wife who serviced everybody in the state while he was gone? The irony is that we were all bonded by those years of imprisonment. Corkscrew and Early couldn’t reveal what had happened to them without jeopardizing Cody, Riker and Gallagher, so they all stayed dead.’

‘The boys on the far side of the river, as Prophett would say,’ Cody remarked.

‘So what happened? How did Taisung get back into the act?’

‘We had this kid. Kilhanney, Ted Kilhanney. That’s when all the trouble started.’

‘Taisung tried to buy us, Hatcher,’ said Pai. ‘To make mules of us.’

‘Blackmail?’ Hatcher asked..

‘Of the worst kind,’ Cody- said. ‘He threatened to expose me, Gallagher, Riker and Kilhanney unless we turned mule for him. That’s what he was doing for Fong, recruiting dope carriers. And Kilhanney was the most vulnerable.’

‘Who’s Kilhanney?’ Hatcher asked.

‘A real Greek tragedy,’ Cody answered. ‘A Catholic priest — how do they put it? — fallen from grace. Somewhere between Saigon and Bangkok, he lost his religion. He was giving some GIs last rites and the position was counterattacked. In the camp he lost what little faith he had left. When we got here, he fell in love with the wife of a Thai politician. You think we’re screwed up? He was really screwed up. He couldn’t face the World, and he was torn up with guilt. Naturally he was the most vulnerable and the first one Taisung went after.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘All Kil was supposed to do was take a plane down to Hat Yai and drive a truckload of women to the Malaysian border. He didn’t know their babies were all dead and stuffed with heroin. When the guards discovered what was going on, Kil panicked and made it up here to Max. Two days later he took the bus over to the Phu Khat beach, swam out, and didn’t come back. What was left of him floated up a week or so later.’

‘That’s when we resurrected Thai Horse,’ Earp said.

‘We made a deal to run twenty kilos of heroin to Amsterdam, and when the courier delivered it, I killed him and dumped the twenty keys in. the Chao Phraya River. Then I sent a message to Tollie Fong and Wol Pot that Thai Horse was taking over. I couldn’t do it as Murphy Cody. I couldn’t do it as an American. So — I became a Thai, Pai became a Thai. I married a Thai, killed as a Thai; as far as everyone is concerned, I am a Thai. Murphy Cody doesn’t exist anymore.’

‘And we spread the word on the street through Sy that Thai Horse was Taisung’s operation,’ said Earp.

‘Killed two birds with one stone,’ said Cody. ‘Fong lost face and put the finger on Taisung. The only edge we had was that Taisung never told Fong who we were.’

‘The whole deal was done with phone calls,’ Earp said. ‘The little creep never showed his face.’

‘He was watching you, though,’ said Hatcher. ‘Up until the day Windy Porter was killed. Were you behind that?’

Cody shook his head. ‘Tollie Fong.’

A silence fell on the room for a few moments. Cody seemed out of talk. Hatcher picked it up. ‘I can guess what happened after that,’ he said. ‘Fong thought Wol Pot had double-crossed him, so the little bastard had to get out of the country. That’s when le blew the whistle on Murph.’

‘And Sloan sent you in to find me,’ said Cody.

‘Look, forget Sloan,’ Hatcher said. ‘He’s out of it. He took Porter’s body back to the States.’

‘Bad guess, soldier,’ said Earp. ‘Sloan is in Bangkok right now. In a place called the House of Dreams in Chinese Town.’

‘That’s bullshit,’ Hatcher said.

‘He’s an opium head,’ Cody said. ‘The House of Dreams is an opium house. We’ve been watching him since the Wol Pot contact. He sometimes goes there for days a time.’

‘Sloan!’

‘Want to see the place?’ said Earp. ‘It’s a Chinese junk used for moving produce into the city.’

A Chinese junk, thought Hatcher, remembering the address on Wol Pot’s passport that had been an empty pier. And his profession: produce sales.

‘I appreciate your loyalty,’ said Cody, ‘but the man is a junkie, no better or worse off than Johnny Prophett.’

‘And guess who owns the junk?’ said Earp.

‘Tollie Fong,’ Hatcher said.

‘Correct.’

‘So you think Fong is blackmailing Sloan?’ Hatcher said.

‘It makes sense. We’ve seen him go there half a dozen times. And we’ve seen him leave. We’ve got a pretty good little intelligence network, Hatcher. You think it was luck, walking into the Longhorn and tumbling on to the regulars. The only thing lucky about it was that you hired Sy. He was supposed to be following you.’

‘Don’t tell me he’s one of the regulars.’

‘He makes good tips bringing tourists to the Longhorn,’ said Cody. ‘He’s also one of the best drivers in Bangkok. He was helping out.’

‘So you knew where I was every minute,’ Hatcher said.

‘Tucked you in, got you up, said Earp. ‘Tumbling on to Wol Pot was a real stroke, though.’

‘And you were following me?’ Hatcher said to Cody.

Cody nodded. ‘We didn’t know for sure whether you knew where Wol Pot was or not. You could have been meeting him.’

‘Why didn’t you kill me, too?’ asked Hatcher. ‘You thought about it.’

Cody nodded again. ‘You’re right. I just couldn’t do it. We decided when Max called about the tiger to get you down here and check you out.’

‘And what if you had decided I ‘was here to kill Murph?’ Hatcher asked.

‘All of us would have put a bullet in you,’ Wyatt Earp ,and emphatically.

Hatcher appeared troubled. ‘There’s something missing here,’ he said. ‘Tollie Fong never had trouble recruiting mules before. Why would he suddenly be relying on somebody like Wol Pot?’

‘He’s moving a lot of junk from the hills to Bangkok and from there to the States,’ said Earp. ‘He’s got at least a thousand keys of ninety-nine pure hidden in Bangkok right now. He needs to move it — a lot of it, and fast.’

‘And we know where it is,’ Cody said.

Hatcher shook his head slowly. ‘If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, forget it. It’s not your problem.’

‘But Fong is,’ said Riker.

‘Forget Tollie Fong,’ said Hatcher sternly. ‘The triads’ll hound you until they kill all of you. Stop now. Just let Thai Horse vanish into the ‘woodwork. Fong won’t bother you anymore.’

‘You don’t really believe that,’ said Cody.

‘Look, you say he’s involved in something big. He doesn’t have time to look for you or Thai Horse. And if you kill him, it’ll never stop. I killed Fong’s father in 1976 and he’s still after me.’

‘I say we hit him, take him out once and for all,’ said Earp. ‘Solves your problem and ours.’

Hatcher shook his head.

‘Listen to me, when I said I was done with killing I meant it. I came on this trip thinking I was performing a simple humane act. Instead I’ve had to fight practically every day to stay alive. The hell with it, no more killing. The sooner I get out of Bangkok, the better.’

He turned and walked out of the house.

‘You think he is right, Cody?’ Pai asked. ‘You think Tollie Fong will forget?’

‘Sure,’ said Earp. ‘And next season the Pope’s gonna play second base with the Mets.’

Melinda was sitting on the porch when Hatcher walked out. She looked up and for the first time she smiled at him.

‘Do you understand now?’

‘Most of it,’ he said. ‘I’m a little confused on details.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like you and Prophett.’

‘I’d like you to understand about Johnny and me, maybe it will explain what holds us all together. It’s not fear of being discovered.’

‘I know it isn’t fear. I’m a fast read.’

Hatcher looked at her and thought about all the passion that had been in her pictures. She had been to able to predict the perfect moment on the faces of the victims of war, the soldiers, the enemy, the innocent bystanders who seemed always to get the worst of it; to capture the fear and frustration and the awful confusion of the young and the despair and the awe and the agony of the old when faced with the obscenity of death, And almost as if she were reading his mind, Melinda went on, ‘Johnny was something. Not afraid of anything. And dreams — God, did he have dreams. But he wasn’t prepared for Nam. It overwhelmed him, and he was like, I don’t know, a little boy in closet who needed somebody to reach out and hold him. He really needed me. He’d cuddle up against me at night, curl into all the right places, tell me how much he loved me. I was drawn to his poetry. And I guess to his weaknesses, too. But Indian country was like a magnet to him. And so was the needle. When he didn’t come back that last time, I waited and waited. I knew he wasn’t dead.’

‘How did you find him?’

‘Pai. She called me one day. I didn’t know her and she was very secretive. “Come to Bangkok” is all she said, but I knew why. I was on the next plane out.’

‘The spike’ll kill him, you know,’ Hatcher whispered.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ve always known I’ll outlive him. Every time he takes a shot I think it’ll be his last. He comes to me and he puts his arms around me and I can feel all the futility and defeat in his body. That’s when I just pray I’ll have him one more day, before the needle takes him away. I can’t imagine what it’s going to be like. The loneliness of not having him anymore.’

‘Fong will kill Murph, Hatcher, like he had to kill Wol Pot. That’s why we have to destroy Tollie Fong first.’

‘I’m out of it. Do what you want. I’ve done my job and I’m going home,’ he said.

Hatcher thought about the trips Pai had made down- river to score for Taisung and for Johnny; about the deals she had made for them; about the logistics of getting Jaimie, who was dying of cancer, back into South Vietnam so he could get home.

‘Leave Tollie Fong alone,’ Hatcher whispered. ‘You prod him, he’ll be like an angry bull. Leave him alone and it will all pass. Believe me, I know this man well.’

‘How about Sloan?’

‘I have to see him once more — there’s something that needs to be finished between us.’

‘And what’ll you tell him about Murph Cody?’

Hatcher looked at the tall, sad-eyed man who had once been his brash boxing colleague, looked across the yard at Wonderboy, who was playing his guitar and singing softly for the Thai dancers, and at Pai, who had traded her youth, her nationality, her very soul, for the man she loved.

‘I’ll tell him the truth,’ said Hatcher. ‘I’ll tell him Murph Cody is dead.’

PLAYBACK

The sun was close to the horizon when he got back to the hotel. Hatcher was tired and dispirited, and at first did not notice the tape recorder sitting on the table beside the bed. He peeled off his dirty clothes, took a shower, came out with a towel wrapped around his waist and lay on the bed, thinking about Murph Cody and the regulars, a disparate group bonded together by love and the need to protect one another. And suddenly he missed the island and Ginia and his friends there, people who asked nothing of one another but trust and friendship. Not unlike the Longhorn regulars. And he admitted to himself that Ginia had brought more happiness and feeling into his life than anything since his days at Annapolis.

He shifted his thoughts back to the regulars. They were going to hit Tollie Fong, he was sure of it, and they would risk everything to do it. And then thinking of Fong, he thought about the assassination of Campon and the bombing in Paris and the death of the Hyena. The police were speculating that he was killed by one of his own people, but Hatcher was familiar with the Hyena — he always worked alone. Pieces began to fall in place in his head.

Then he noticed the small hand-size tape machine. He stared at it, wondering where it had come from, before he reached out and picked it u.

Lying on his back, he flipped on the play switch. The voice froze him: ‘Hatcher, do I have to tell you what this is, or do you recognize my voice? Perhaps it will help if I stir your memory. Does Singapore mean anything? It should, Hatcher, that is where you murdered my father. Or the rivers, where you killed my father’s most loyal soldiers. Or the house of the American Jew, Cohen, who calls himself Chinese, where you murdered still more of my men. Do I need to tell you my name? No, I think not.

‘I am certain that you know I have made a promise to my san wong to put aside the ch’u-tiao I have sworn against you. And I will honor that oath even though you have dishonored my family and spilled our blood.

‘And while my promise also includes Cohen, it does not include all your friends, Hatcher.

‘Listen for a moment, here is another voice for you to recognize.’

There was silence on the tape for thirty or forty seconds, a hollow sound. Then Hatcher heard someone enter a room farther away, in another part of the house or apartment or whatever it was. A woman’s voice was humming as a door opened.

Then she screamed.

It was a scream of surprise and fright, followed almost immediately by the sound of someone being hit

— a groan? It was difficult to make out. A moment later there was the sound of heavy breathing, of footsteps on stairs, then Fong’s voice again: ‘It will be a few moments more, Hatcher. I had to use a little force to subdue your friend.’ The machine went dead for a moment, then the hollow sound again followed by a scream and a woman’s voice, angry and full of hate:

‘You bastard, you bloody bastard, take your hands off me...’

Daphne.

He sat straight up on the bed. His heartbeat accelerated. He could not believe what he was hearing, did not want to hear it. He snapped it off and held it in a trembling hand. He knew before the tape spun any further that Daphne was dead. He knew it because Fong would not have left the tape for him to hear if she was still alive. He could not imagine what horror the tape would spew out and yet he hesitated to turn it back on.

The fan whirred overhead in a syncopated rhythm. Outside, the sun slid below the spears and domes of the city’s temples. Darkness crept silently into the room and filled its corners and shadows, and still Hatcher sat there with the dreaded tape recorder in his hand. Finally he turned the switch back on and listened to her screams of anger and outrage, listened to the struggle, to things falling and breaking, and finally a sharp crack and a grunt and a sigh.

And Fong’s voice, slightly out of breath. ‘She is a tigress, Hatcher. Her nails are like scissors. I had to put her away again, but only for a few minutes. She will come around.’

There was a soft, obscene chuckle. ‘I think. I broke her jaw, Hatcher.’

There was a rustling sound, sounds of activity in the room and Fong’s voice again, farther away from the recorder this time. ‘I am tying her to her bed, Hatcher. Her hands to the head . . . there. Now her feet. She is tied down on the bed like a star, stretched out for me, Hatcher.’

Daphne groaned. Her voice, pitifully weak and confused at first, then growing stronger, the outrage flowing back into it. Then came the sounds of clothing being torn, viciously, recklessly, and accompanied by Fong’s toneless chortling.

‘Cut me loose, you pig. You worthless, stinking pig!’ Then she screamed again, this time a scream of great pain, followed by a sobbing deep in her throat.

‘This is for Hatcher,’ Fong’s voice hissed. ‘You understand, bitch.’

Her scream tore through the small speaker, distorting it. ‘Hatch . .

‘I’m going to have to gag her, Hatcher. You’ll have to trust me from now on. I’ll tell you everything that’s happening. I promise you, I won’t leave out a single detail . .

Hatcher flicked it off again. Shimmering marbles of sweat twinkled suddenly on his forehead and coursed slowly down the side of his face as he stared down at the tiny machine. His teeth were clenched so hard his jaws hurt.

He forced himself to switch it back on, to listen as Fong described every disgusting, brutalizing, painful act in detail, to hear Daphne’s voice growing weaker, more pitiful, more terrified with each vicious move, and he was numbed by the extent of Fong’s sadism, by his total lack of human feeling and compassion, by the horrifying passion with which Fong brutalized, raped and violated her.

Finally he leaned forward until the top of his head was on the bed and beat the mattress with his fists, his rage pouring out in muffled screams and cries.

Fong’s voice continued on, its malevolent tones whispered in a deadly mimic of Hatcher’s own voice. ‘Do you feel it, my dear. Do you feel the point against your throat, hmm?’

Daphne’s reply was a painful whimper.

‘You know the drill, Hatcher. Place the point of the blade in the hollow place of the throat pointing toward the heart —‘

‘God, no!’ Hatcher cried out through his clenched teeth.

‘— then thrust down —,

Her scream was agonizing, even though it was muffled by whatever he had used for a gag.

‘— hard and straight —‘

Hatcher heard her weak cry.

‘— into the heart. Hah!’

Her sharp intake of air. Then the rattle of blood and air in her throat. Then the silence.

‘It is over, Hatcher,’ Fong’s voice whispered into the machine. ‘Your friend is dead. And many other friends will die, you gwai-lo bastard. It is far from over.’

Hatcher sat for more than an hour, staring into the growing darkness, the tape recorder gripped tightly in his fist, his rage crashing and ebbing in his chest like the waves of the sea, his memories of Daphne Chien surging through his mind. Should he have predicted this would happen? he wondered. Could he have stopped it? He had a moment when he thought it might have been a cruel joke, a perverse play, acted out for his sake.

Finally he called Cohen. It took three tries to get through, and then he heard the familiar Boston accent.

‘China?’

‘Hi, buddy.’

‘I’m calling about Daphne —,

‘What can I tell you. I feel like a son of a bitch. I should have covered her—’

‘It’s true, then?’

‘How did you find out?’

Hatcher’s mouth went dry for a moment. He took a sip of water. ‘He left a tape . . . described every

every .

‘Jesus. Listen to me, Hatch. I‘ve already talked to the san wong. I told him Fong was a dishonor and a disgrace to the Chiu Chao, that he’s a woman killer and a rapist — shit, you wouldn’t believe what I said. I told him if any, any, member of the Chiu Chao sets foot in Hong Kong, he’s dead. He’s disgraced them all, Hatch, the whole damn bloody—’

‘China?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I can’t talk any more now, China.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, I’m okay. I just can’t talk anymore.’

‘You watch yourself, Hatch. He’s a demon, this one.’

‘I know it — see you later.’

‘Listen, kiddo, I’ll come over there, bring some of my best guys. I can be there by morning and—’

‘China?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Stay home. Later, okay?’ He softly cradled the phone.

It had been difficult for Hatcher to accept the reality that for years he had killed with neither hate nor malice, that he had been conditioned and manipulated to the point where inflicting death had come as easily to him as going to the grocery store or voting. If the journey that had started in Los Boxes and ended on a tiger hunt in Thailand had achieved nothing else for Hatcher, it had forced him to deal with the lightless places in his soul, places he had ignored for many years. From 126 he had discovered himself; had learned about camaraderie and trust and love from Melinda and the regulars; about the meaning of friendship from Cirillo and Ginia and Daphne and China Cohen.

And he had learned the true meaning of hate from Tollie Fong.

Hatcher knew he could never shed light in some of the dark places that were part of his nature. He might have been able to set aside the hatred that curled in his gut like an asp, except that he knew Fong’s desecration of Daphne had nothing to do with the Chiu Chaos or China Cohen or Harry Sloan or Cody; it was between him and Tollie Fong. Hatcher had started it and Fong was justified in his hatred. Hatcher knew he would continue to wreak his vengeance against everyone close to Hatcher until the ch’u-tiao was satisfied.

And Cody and Earp also were right. Eventually the regulars, too, would feel Fong’s deadly sting. It had to be ended once and for all. Hatcher knew he could not bury the past without purging it first. Hatcher knew now that he had come to Bangkok because he valued Cody’s life. In a savage turn of irony, he had tried to do something decent, and Sloan, who had created the monster within him, had summoned him back to use it again.

There could be no end to the killing yet. Either Hatcher or Fong must die before the blood feud would end.

The little metal cars were replicas of one of the earliest Mercedes racing machines, a single-seater with giant wheels made of real rubber and small plastic windshields. They were made in Germany by the Schuco Company and, when wound up, could reach a speed of thirty miles an hour for about two seconds.

Riker, who had found them in a toy store in the International Bazaar and brought four of them back, was on his knees, blowing dirt from around the axles and dropping single drops of oil into the moving parts. The jukebox was thundering and Corkscrew and Johnny Prophett were servicing their cars. The regulars were lined up along the wall in the small room behind the glass-beaded curtain, and they had moved the tables back and put several heavy strips of Styrofoam against the back wall and around the legs of the pool table to protect the racing cars when they reached the end of the room. The Honorable, as stern-looking and inscrutable as always, was sitting behind his desk, taking bets, marking the tabs and passing them.

‘Okay, c’mon, Corkscrew, get ready. I’m about to make dog meat out of you.’

‘That’ll be the fuckin’ day,’ the burly black man answered. He lifted his finger off the back wheels of the small toy car and they wheezed as they spun around. ‘Looka there, man. I may be goin’ for a record here.’

‘Sure,’ snapped Riker, winding his car up with a toy key and keeping a thumb on the back wheels.

‘Are you ready?’ Wonderboy yelled. He was holding a piece of yellow silk that had been checkered with a Magic Marker.

‘Drivers ready . . .‘ he called out, waving the flag over his head. And then he dropped it. Corkscrew and Riker set the cars down and the ‘wheels skittered on the hardwood floors and the two little machines took off toward the end of the room, their springs whining as they unwound and the cars bounding along side by side until Riker’s car began to shift to the right and eased against Corkscrew’s machine just enough to set it off course. The midget racing car veered, hit the wall and tumbled end over end halfway down the room. One of its wheels flew off and bounced down behind Riker’s car as it crossed the finish line and whipped into the Styrofoam barrier. Earp, at the other end of the room, waved the winner’s flag.

‘Awright!’ Riker yelled.

‘Foul,’ complained Corkscrew bitterly. ‘You fouled me, man, drove me right into the wall.’

‘Foul, hell, there’s no such thing,’ Riker snapped back.

The two men stood nose to nose their fists clenched, bellowing at each other until the Honorable raised his hand and loudly cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ he said severely, ‘really! This is hardly the way international champions act.’

‘What’s the decision, Honorable?’ Corkscrew asked.

The man in the impeccable white suit cleared his voice and announced, ‘Unfortunately, while it would appear that a foul did occur, I must rule that in the absence of any specific regulation concerning the deportment of the vehicles on the course, no foul was committed. The blue car is the winner.’

A general cheer went up and bet money changed hands. Riker counted out his bhats as Corkscrew paid off, snapping the bills into his palm. Then suddenly the room got quiet. Riker turned around. Hatcher was standing at the top of the stairs. His face looked drawn and the color seemed to be drained from it.

‘Hey, buddy, what’s the matter,’ Wonderboy said, ‘couldn’t stand to leave us?’

Hatcher didn’t smile. He walked over and put the tape recorder on the corner of the pool table and snapped it on. The regulars listened, then moved closer as Fong’s voice recited his vicious litany.

‘Oh my God,’ Melinda breathed and, covering her mouth with her hand, turned her back to the table.

When it was over they were all grouped tightly around Hatcher, staring down at the machine. There was no explanation necessary; the tape spoke for itself.

‘This lady was special to you, was she?’ Prophett asked.

‘Does it make any difference?’ Hatcher said.

They all slowly shook their heads.

‘I made a mistake,’ Hatcher whispered. ‘This morning when I said Fong was too busy to bother with you? I was wrong. He’ll kill and keep killing until he gets to me.’

‘So?’ said Earp.

‘So the only choice is to force his band. I’ll go after him and force him to move on me in self-defense and I’ll kill him.’

‘Just like that?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You said no more killing this morning,’ Melinda said.

‘I was wrong.’

‘You’re going to do this on your own?’ said Potter.

‘I still have a few good moves.’

‘So why the Lone Ranger act?’ asked Earp.

‘It’s my fight.’

‘Not true, warrior,’ Prophett said. ‘It’s our fight too. You don’t have a monopoly on hate. You got the lady, we got Kilhanney.’

‘You can’t take the chance, none of you,’ said Hatcher. ‘You get caught, you blow everything you’ve put together here. It’ll all come out.’

‘Well, I’ve got nothing to hide,’ said Earp.

‘Me either,’ said Corkscrew.

‘Or me,’ Potter chimed in.

‘I say if we’re going to do it, take down the whole works,’ said Riker.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Hatcher.

‘I told you before, he’s getting ready to make a major move on the U.S.,’ said Earp. ‘He’s got two tons of skag on that junk. I seem to remember searing you were the one took out the Dragon’s Breath back in ‘72, ‘73, to try to slow down heroin coming into Saigon. What’s the difference between then and now?

Hatcher, his eyes the color of flint, stared at Earp. What Earp said was true. Wanting things to change didn’t change anything.

‘You’re right,’ Hatcher snapped. ‘Nothing’s changed.’

‘We take down the junk, right?’ Riker said with a grin.

You lookin’ for a fight? Said Hatcher.

Fuckin-A, Corkscrew answered for him.

Hatcher walked behind the bar and drew himself half a glass of beer. He sipped it slowly, then wiped off his upper lip with his thumb.

Old instincts were stirring in Hatcher. And old memories. Once, many years before, 126 and 127 had been having one of their long philosophical discussions.

‘Sometimes it is necessary for a man to play God,’ 126 had said. ‘Sometimes God is too busy to take care of things himself and he delegates the authority.’

‘How do you know?’ 127 had asked. ‘How do you know it’s not prejudice or hate or envy?’

‘Because it will not matter to you,’ 126 answered. ‘Because it will be a job without satisfaction.’

There would be no satisfaction in killing Tollie Fong. He was simply a volcano waiting to erupt. The time had come, Hatcher couldn’t wait any longer. But Fong was no amateur. To do the job right would take everything he had. Just like the old days - as S loan used to say, ‘Do it and do it right.’

‘An operation like this, there are only two choices,’ Hatcher said. ‘Either you go to him or you bring him to you. Either way, we’ve got to get him right. He doesn’t travel alone, and if I count correctly, there’re only five of us. We’d have to find the stash, figure out how to get to it — and to him.’

Earp smiled. ‘I told you, soldier, we always know where he is. One of us always has the bastard in view. Right now he’s on that junk. Arid you can kill two jackals with one shot.’

‘How’s that?’ Hatcher asked.

‘Because Sloan’s there too, in the House of Dreams,’ came the answer.

A TIME FOR KILLING

Hatcher recognized the area. He had been there once gangplank stretched to the wharf. Thais moved up and down the plank and argued in loud tones with the men on the deck. On the side of the junk facing the river, several boats — longtails, snakes and klong buggies — huddled around the side of the big boat as the river merchants unloaded their purchases onto their river craft.

‘I was here once before with Sy,’ Hatcher said. ‘That junk is sitting on the spot Wol Pot gave as his address.’

‘That was his front,’ said Earp. ‘He ran the produce haul for Fong, bringing in fresh produce from Chon Buri down the coast. They sell it right off the boat to local dealers.’

‘What makes you think his stash is on the junk?’

‘Because the courier Murph aced picked up the package here,’ Earp continued. ‘Sy was following him.’

‘The son of a bitch wants to stay as close to his fortune as he can get,’ said Corkscrew.

‘And the House of Dreams is in there, too?’ Hatcher said.

Earp nodded. ‘Fong’s junk of plenty.’

‘You’re sure Sloan and Fong are in there?’

‘They were half an hour ago.’

There were five of them in the van: Earp, Corkscrew, Potter, Riker and Hatcher. Hatcher was wearing his flying belt and a coil of rope thrown over his shoulder.

There was a clinking of metal n metal as the team prepared their weapons: Hatcher’s Aug, loaded with three extra magazines in his belt, Corkscrew’s 870 riot shotgun and 9 mm. H&K, Potter’s AK-47, which he had borrowed from Sweets Wilkie, and Earp’s trusty .375 ‘Buntline Special’ stuck in one side of his belt, two pockets full of quick loads and two pipe bombs stuck in the opposite side of his waistband. Riker had a trusty old M-16. Plenty of firepower, thought Hatcher. With that kind of firepower, they could hit Fong by surprise and quickly however bad the odds were. Hard and fast and no quarter, he was thinking. The old wham-bam-thank-you ma’m approach.

Sy appeared from the shadows and jumped in the side panel door. When he saw Hatcher, he looked embarrassed and lowered his head in a sign of shame.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ Hatcher said.

‘I am sorry, Hatch,’ he said without looking up.

‘Mai pen rai,’ Hatcher answered with a grin. ‘I don’t know what you’re better at, spying or fighting.’

The little Thai looked relieved. ‘I went on board,’ he said excitedly. ‘They think I am checking out their stuff to buy. The Chinese are all down below.’

‘How about that bunch?’ Potter asked, pointing to several men in black on the deck of the junk.

‘They are Thais,’ said Sy. ‘They make talk for the food.’

‘Salesmen,’ Earp said and Sy nodded. ‘They’ll leave soon. The junk market closes at nine.’

‘Be good and dark by then,’ Corkscrew said.

‘Let me show you,’ Sy said. ‘Paper and ball point, please?’

He was a good spy. Pretending to be a produce dealer, he had studied the junk well. His map was full of little details, location of hatchways, stairwells, cabins. The junk was a giant. The main hold ran the width of the junk and half its length, an enormous yawning cavern that could be filled with lettuce, rice, watermelons and whatever other produce Fong’s front men had to sell. On one side of the hold was an open booth, a pleasant, comfortable space with pillows on the floor and a low-slung table where Fong and his men could sit in comfort, sip their scotch and monitor the produce market.

Opposite the booth on the forward end of the main hold was a wooden door leading to the cubicles called the House of Dreams. Nestled in the prow were three small cells.

There was only one stairwell – at the stern of the hold.

There was an open hatchway near the water level on the river side of the boat through which produce was being off-loaded to waiting boats on the river. On deck, a thin latticework hatch afforded a view- of the main hold.

A two-master with a small captain’s cabin on the stern end.

‘On this side, gas tanks,’ said Sy, pointing to the starboard side, above the booth, the side adjoining the wharf.

‘How do you know?’ Hatcher asked.

‘They were putting new fuel in from dock.’

‘You don’t miss a thing,’ said Hatcher.

‘Good fighter cannot miss anything,’ he answered proudly.

‘How many Chinese?’ asked Hatcher.

‘Fong, Kot, three others. They were sitting in the booth drinking. I do not see Sloan. There are two gunners on each side of hold downstairs, two more on main deck.’

‘A mere eleven of them to four of us,’ Hatcher sighed. ‘You’d think the odds would get better with time.’

‘What do you mean, four. I count six of us, if you include Sy,’ said Riker.

‘Sy stays outside,’ said Earp. ‘It isn’t his fight. But he can provide us with a back-up getaway. You can’t go in either, Riker. You can’t afford to get caught — you have to keep the van warm.’

‘When it starts,’ said Hatcher, do it fast. Waste Fong and all his boys, burn the junk, and get the hell out. Don’t think, just do it. And one more thing — Sloan is mine. We have unfinished business. Sy, find us a snakeboat real fast. And, Riker, keep the engine running. However it goes, this won’t take long.’

Earlier in the day, Sloan had sought relief from his nightmares at the House of Dreams. Walking down its darkened depths, he descended into his own personal hell, following the old man and the smell of opium to one of the cubicles, watching eagerly as the old man rolled the goli of thick tar and sniffed it in the pipe, then taking the pipe and sucking its smoke deeply and slipping into his dream world. Lying on the cot, staring up into the darkness, his mind dispelled thoughts of Cody and Hatcher and Tollie Fong as the smoke took effect and he felt the ethereal rush. H began to hum an aimless song to himself and then to whistle very softly as he watched the blessed smoke twirl far up into the darkness above him. Around him, from the other cubicles, he saw the snakes of gray vapor rising too, like dozens of wispy cobras dancing to the tune of an invisible flute.

‘Sloan?’ The voice was familiar hut seemed miles away.

Sloan sighed.

‘You spend too much time on the pipe,’ Tollie Fong’s voice said. ‘You have not been attending to business, as was our agreement.’

He stared up and refocused his eyes. Tollie Fong stood over him. There were three other Chins standing behind him. One of them was the new Red Pole, Billy Kot.

‘You’re ruining a perfectly good dream,’ Sloan said softly, staring backup at the smoke.

‘We need to talk.’

‘Later.’

‘You have broken a promise to me.’

‘Later. I’m busy,’ Sloan said dreamily.

‘You stinking junkie,’ Fong snarled back and hit Sloan in the mouth with a straight, hard right punch. Sloan went over backward, falling off the cot, his lips split and bleeding. He sat up, his eyes suddenly afire. Control, his opium-fogged mind thought, Don’t lose your control, Sloan.

‘That was a stupid thing to do,’ he said through numbed lips.

“You made me a promise,’ Fong hissed.

Sloan clambered off the floor. Only his eyes reflected his rage. ‘You better pull it together, Fong, unless you’re ready to take on the whole United States Army, because that’s —‘

Billy Kot hit him a sharp, hard rap on the back of the neck and Sloan fell abruptly to his knees. He turned painfully toward the short, wiry killer.

‘This is the man who did your killing work for you,’ Fong said contemptuously. ‘His name is Billy Kot.’

Sloan slid onto the cot and wiped his mouth, staring down mutely at the blood on the back of his hand. The dope was beginning to wear off, chased by anger and pain.

I’ll give you one thing,’ Sloan said quietly to Billy Kot. ‘You’re very good.’

The assassin nodded but said nothing.

‘You don’t know how good he really is — yet,’ said Fong.

Sloan smiled up at his ally turned adversary. ‘You scare me to death,’ he said with resignation.

‘You made me a promise, Sloan.’

‘And so far I’ve kept my end of the bargain,’ said Sloan.

‘No! You said you would deliver Hatcher to me.’

‘I said I’d have him find out if Cody was Thai Horse. If you weren’t good enough to keep a finger on him, that’s your problem.’

‘You said he would kill Cody for us.’

Sloan shook his head. ‘Never said that,’ he said. ‘You said he would kill Cody’ Fong insisted. ‘I said he’d find him if he was alive,’ Sloan said emphatically without raising his voice.

‘Sloan, the deal was you would bring him in and he would find this Cody, if Cody indeed was Thai Horse, and he would kill him.’

‘Well then, I was wrong about that,’ Sloan said. The smile lingered on his swollen lips.

‘You were wrong about a lot of things. This man of yours killed my number one on Hong Kong, tore up the Ts’e K’am Men Ti. He killed Batal and Billy Death — men we were training for you! And no-w he has vanished like clouds in the wind.’

‘There’s an old Swedish hymn that goes, “Nought is given ‘neath the sun; nought is had that is not won.”

‘I do not understand the meaning of that,’ said Fong.

‘Well, it is a little subtle for your pea brain,’ Sloan said, wiping the blood from his split lips and staring numbly at it.

The pupils in Fong’s eyes dilated with hate, his mouth remained a thin slash in his face. But he held his temper, his voice a whispered threat. ‘We did our part of the bargain. Billy Kot killed the terrorist, took care of the bombing, killed the South American.’

Sloan looked up at the Chinese mobster, the usual smile on his face, his voice still soft as down.

‘You idiot,’ he said with a sneer.

The infuriated Fong pulled out his pistol. He held it an inch from the bridge of Sloan’s nose. ‘No gwai-lo talks to me like that.’

Sloan chuckled. He leaned his head forward until the muzzle of the gun rested against his forehead. ‘Go ahead, shoot,’ he said. ‘Shoot, you bastard!’

He stared past the gun, past Fong’s arm and into his eyes. ‘You need me,’ Sloan said with an edge in his voice. ‘You’re sitting on dynamite. It’s only a matter of time before the DEA tumbles on to your whole stash. They already know you got the stuff. They’ll squash you like a bug. Without me, you’ll be just another dumb Chinaman floating in the river.’

With a growl like an animal’s, Fong slashed his pistol down on Sloan’s skull, and the big man groaned and rolled over on his face.

‘You are a dead soldier,’ Fong hissed in his ear.

On the port side of the junk Hatcher worked his way up a pile of discarded produce and felt the surface of the boat, looking for chinks in its teak wood armor. He got a finger hold in a split in its side, pulled himself up and searched for another, then another, inching his way up the ancient side of the craft split by split, chink by chink, like the old free-climbing days.

Unlike the regulars, he was too well known among the Chiu Chaos to walk brazenly aboard the produce boat. His face had been memorized by every one of Fong’s assassins and he knew it. It was the way they operated. Like the FBI. Ten Most Wanted.

Earp, however, strolled the deck in a cowboy hat, a tan safari jacket tied loosely at the waist by a cloth belt. He lit a cigar, stared down through the latticework hatch into the hold below, lie saw Billy Kot and two henchmen lounging in the booth, drinking. There was no sign of Fong.

Hatcher clung tenaciously to the side of the junk, his hand sliding quietly and expertly across its smooth teakwood hull. He felt a splinter, worked at it with his free hand, his sturdy fingers digging at the chink until he could get four fingertips into the slit. He pulled himself up slowly, let go with his other hand and groped for another slot.

On the deck of the junk, Earp thumped the watermelons, peeled back leaves of lettuce and smelled them, tried to look as if he knew what he was doing.

‘Okay?’ one of the Thai salesmen said.

‘Yeah, not bad,’ Earp answered. ‘How much for the lot?’ He swept his arm around the deck.

‘All of it?’ the astonished Thai answered.

‘Yeah. What’ve you got below, any more stuff?’

‘More of the same.’

‘I’ll just take a look.’

The Thai produce man, anxious to please Earp, led him toward the hatch that led below-decks. Two Chinese gunmen leaned against the railing, watching them casually.

Sy swung a snaketail boat alongside and started chattering with one of the off-loaders. Corkscrew, his shotgun tucked under his arm, pulled himself up on the lip of the boat and entered the hold. He saw Earp coming down the stairs.

Hatcher continued to inch his way up the side of the junk. Behind the guards he grasped the rail with one hand, then with the other, and then he peered over the side. He searched the people on deck for Potter but couldn’t see him. Then he saw a stooped old Chinese walk over to one of the guards.

‘A light, please?’ the old man asked.

‘No smoke.’

My God, it’s Potter, Hatcher realized.

Potter stood in front of the other guard, who took out a Bic lighter and held it for him. Potter reached under his robe and grasped the handle of a K-Bar knife. Slowly he slid it out, and as Hatcher vaulted over the railing and pulled back the guard’s head and slit his throat, Potter jammed the heavy assault knife, hilt deep, under the ribs of the second guard and up into his heart.

They both died without a sound.

Hatcher ran to the mainmast and quickly tied a rope around it, slipping one end through the ring in his belt.

Potter continued down the stairway toward the hold.

In the hatch a swaggering Earp walked over to the booth where Billy Kot and his two compatriots were sitting. Tollie Fong was nowhere to be seen.

‘The name’s Holliday, from Valdosta, Georgia, U.S. of A.,’ Earp bellowed. ‘I’m interested in buying up the rest of this cargo.’

‘The whole thing?’ Billy Kot asked with surprise.

‘That’s right. Allow me to give you my card.’

Earp stared into Billy Kot’s eyes arid, with a single, lightning move, reached under his jacket, hauled out his long-barreled .44, swung it out until it was six inches from Billy Kot’s heart and fired. The gun roared and the shot ripped into Billy Kot’s chest and exploded into his heart. He was lifted six inches off the floor and blown backward into the open hatch of the junk, where he landed spread-eagled on his back and slid to a stop.

Earp dived over the table and rolled away, he clawed loose one of the pipe bombs from his belt, lit it with his cigar and threw it over his shoulder toward the bulkhead.

On deck, Hatcher jumped up and, holding his legs together, came down feet first on the thin latticework hatch cover. It shattered and he dropped through. The floor below swept up toward him. The Aug spat quietly in his hand, cutting down the other two Chinese gangsters in the alcove as Hatcher hit the floor.

The main room of the junk disintegrated into chaos.

Earp’s bomb bounced with a ringing sound and exploded. Bits of wall and doors vanished in a white hot blast, and a shower of dust and bits of wood clattered into the room. Flames licked the bulkhead of the junk.

Fong crouched in one of three small cells in the fore section of the junk adjacent to the cubicles of the opium den. Sloan sat on the floor leaning against the bulkhead. Fong leaned over so his face was inches from Sloan’s. ‘I will enjoy killing you, Harry,’ he said softly.

Sloan laughed. It wasn’t big laugh, but it was sincere. ‘You’re stupid enough to do that,’ Sloan said.

‘I’m going to kill you a little bit at a time!’ Fong said, his voice rising with his anger.

‘Your smoke’s been doing that for a long time,’ Sloan said with a wave of his hand. He was staring at the floor, trying to get his bearings, trying to make his way through the hazy slow motion induced by drug and concussion.

‘I’ll wait until you come down,’ Fong said. ‘When it will hurt the most. I am going to kill you and every gwai-lo that Yankee bastard Hatcher knows. I will kill the world out from under him. Then he will come to me.’

‘I wouldn’t look forward to that if I were you,’ Sloan said.

A moment later, Earp’s bomb went off.

Fong was knocked to his knees as the junk shuddered from the explosion. He whirled toward the sounds of gunfire, and Sloan slammed his foot into his back, sending him sprawling out of the cell. The gunman spun around and fired a shot at Sloan. The bullet ripped into his side.

‘Ahh, damn!’ Sloan bellowed and rolled into a tight ball against the bulkhead.

The stoned opium heads in the house of Dreams, awakened from their dreams by the explosion and the gunfire that followed, swarmed from their cubicles and rushed toward the main hold. Screaming, bumping into each other, babbling, tumbling down the narrow passage, they choked it from wall to wall, their vacant eyes suddenly alive with fear. The door to the House of Dreams burst open. Earp, Potter and Corkscrew were raking the interior of the junk with shotgun and rifle fire. A bullet smashed into Corkscrew’s leg but he kept shooting. House of Dreams customers stumbled into gunfire, flames, smoke and destruction.

Faced with the insane nightmare, Fong forgot Sloan and dashed into the middle of the mad scramble, slashing his way with his gun through the crazed mob toward the exit. Then as he looked up he saw his deadliest enemy at the other end of the passageway. Hatcher, his eyes aglow with determination, was waiting for him at the exit to the main hatch.

Forgetting his own peril for the moment, Fong started firing at Hatcher. Hatcher ducked but did not back off. He charged into the screaming mob of Chinese, zigzagged directly toward Fong, his Aug chopping away at the wall as Fong ducked into the mass of fleeing men and then veered off into one of the opium cubicles.

A second bomb exploded, bursting another cache of produce to bits. The explosion sent Hatcher, Fong and the terrified dopers sprawling. More flames spewed from the side of the boat, and then from the center of the pile of shattered vegetables a geyser of white powder poured out. Tollie Fong’s precious cargo of China White showered from its ruptured hiding place as flames roared up the side of the junk.

Hatcher fell against the wall as the turmoil intensified. Fong jumped into one of the cubicles of the House of Dreams and crouched there, waiting him out.

Hatcher started down the passageway, hugging the wall, his gun ready.

Behind him, Potter searched the bulkhead, saw the telltale bulge of the two hundred-gallon gas tanks. He cut loose with the AK-47. The 9 mm. slugs thunked into the tanks, rent them, blew off the nozzles. Gasoline sprayed out into the hold, hit the flames started by the two bombs.

Fire streaked up the streams of gas, burst into the tanks and exploded. Two tremendous swirling yellow balls of flame boiled out under the deck and swept through the hull. The blazing gas spilled out over the heroin and ignited it, melting it into black charcoal. The junk was transformed into an orange inferno.

Hatcher dived for the floor and covered his head with his hands. Fire roiled over his head and set the passage aflame.

A gas-fed fireball swept over Fong. His face was seared by the flames. His clothes burst into flames. Then the second tank blew, exploding the side of the junk, and the screaming Fong arced like a blazing skyrocket through the hole into the river.

The regulars rushed up the stairs and out of the roaring tomb, leaving behind Fong’s dead or dying mobsters. Earp and Potter, dragging the wounded corkscrew, rushed down the gangplank with the terrified Thai produce men into pure chaos on the wharf. A fire truck came through the crowd with its siren screaming. Behind it a police car appeared, then another. Riker spotted them and dropped the van into gear, pulling over beside his friends. Earp shoved Corkscrew in the side door before rolling in himself, and was followed by Potter, who slammed the door shut.

‘Let’s move it,’ Earp said, and Riker turned the van away from the blazing junk, and headed away from Chinese Town.

‘How’d it go?’ Riker asked.

‘We did the job,’ Earp said.

‘Three minutes, twenty-five seconds,’ Potter said.

Earp checked the wounded Corkscrew. ‘How’s the leg?’ he asked.

‘Think it’s broken,’ he groaned.

‘I got an old Purple Heart you can have,’ said Potter, lying on his back gasping for breath.

‘Already got one,’ Corkscrew said and mustered as much of a laugh as the pain would allow.

Inside the burning passageway, Hatcher crawled quickly toward the bow of the junk. The fire roared around him, flames snatching at his clothes. He kicked open one of the small hatches, then the next, and saw Sloan crouched against the bulkhead clutching his bleeding side. Flames roared overhead like a furnace. Heat devoured oxygen. Hatcher dashed in, grabbed him by the collar and, dragging him to his feet, rushed toward the only open side hatch that wasn’t consumed by fire.

‘Can’t do it!’ Sloan cried out.

‘Bullshit,’ Hatcher answered.

‘Hatch, over here!’ Sy yelled, still in the snakeboat and hanging on to the side of the junk. Hatcher dragged Sloan through the flames and shoved him out of the open hatch and into the boat and tumbled in after him.

‘Get the hell out of here,’ he said, and Sy turned the slender boat and roared away from the inferno.

FINISHED BUSINESS

Sy eased the snakeboat up beside the wharf and Hatcher helped Sloan out. The wound in his side was still bleeding, despite a makeshift bandage Hatcher had fashioned from Sloan’s shirttail.

‘See you around sometime, Sy,’ Hatcher said as he and Sloan struggled out of the boat and onto the wharf. Three blocks away the waterfront was pandemonium. The flaming junk cast a yellow glow over the river and the fire trucks, police cars and spectators on the pier.

‘You be okay?’ Sy asked.

‘We’re fine, pal. Head up one of the klongs and dump the boat. And stay away from the Longhorn for a couple of days.’

‘You okay guy, Hatch,’ the little Thai said.

‘And you’re a great fighter,’ Hatcher answered.

He hoisted Sloan, helping him away from the wharf and across the street to an alley. It was deserted and quiet, the clamor from the fire scene barely discernible in the background. Finally Sloan fell against the wall and, sliding to the ground, squeezed his riddled side. Hatcher knelt beside him, pulled his hand away and inspected the wound.

‘A bee-sting,’ he said, ‘you’ll get over it.’

‘It’s killing me,’ Sloan groaned, pressing his jacket against the wound.

‘I should kill you. You’re a menace. You lied to me, double-crossed me, set me up If anybody deserved to die, it was you, not Cody.’

The customary smile played at Sloan’s lips. ‘No sympathy, huh, laddie?’

‘I’d sooner have sympathy for the devil.’

‘Hell, you couldn’t kill me,’ Sloan said wearily. ‘I’m family.’

‘Oh, I could kill you, Harry. But I’m not going to and it has nothing to do with family.’

‘I did what I had to do, you did what you had to do,’ said Sloan. ‘I don’t have to explain that to you.’

‘There was no other way to deal with the problem,’ Hatcher said.

‘I’ve got the same trouble all over the world.’

‘No, Harry. This was survival. Your job is political expediency.’

‘Whatever you call it, you do it and forget it.’

‘No, you do it and forget about it. I think about it.’

‘Ah bullshit. You’re a soldier. You did what soldiers do.’

‘You’ve been telling me that for years. I didn’t do what soldiers do, I did what you told me to do.’

‘Why the hell did you come over here anyway?’ Sloan asked.

‘I thought I was doing something decent for a change, a sense of responsibility to an old friend. I’m talking about Cody, not you.’

Sloan said, ‘Ahh,’ and waved the remark off with his hand. There was a moment of awkward silence and then Sloan said, ‘You were the best, the best I ever had. The perfect shadow warrior.’

‘Trouble is, you ran out of soldiers, didn’t you, Harry. One double cross too many, one lie too often, and one morning you woke up and you didn’t have any warriors left. They were either dead, crippled or had quit. That’s why you made your deal with Fong.’

Sloan leaned over and pressed his side harder and groaned with the pain that was burning deep in his side. ‘Just tell me one thing,’ he asked. ‘Is Cody alive?’

‘No, he’s dead,’ Hatcher whispered. ‘He died a long time ago.’

‘I’ll be damned,’ said Sloan. ‘All this fuss for nothing.’

‘It wasn’t for nothing. It was a payoff trip’

‘payoff to who?’

‘You were paying off Tollie Fong.’

‘You’re crazy. Why would I owe Tollie Fong anything. Because I smoked a little of his pipe?’

‘No. Because he took our place. When you ran out of soldiers, you had an execution squad made to order — Fong and his Chiu Chao assassins. He got rid of Campon for you in Atlanta because Campon was too independent, too corrupt. Sooner or later it would have come out and the boys in the State Department would’ve had fits dealing with that. On the other hand, Cosomil was nice and safe.’

‘And he didn’t have half of Madrango’s treasury in bank accounts in Switzerland,’ Sloan added.

‘And Cosomil would be a good little boy and take his orders from the White House,’ said Hatcher.

Behind them, two dozen yards away, Tollie Fong swam out of the darkness and grabbed a ladder on the dock. His arm was burned and his face was scorched. He started up the ladder and heard the voices, He cautiously peeked over the lip of the wharf. Hatcher and Sloan were fifty yards away.

‘I know you too well,’ Hatcher was saying. ‘I’ve done the same things for you too many times. In Paris you were in real top form. You not only got rid of three ambassadors that were giving us a bad time about our bases in Europe, you laid it off on the Hyena and got rid of him too. You always were resourceful. Always looking to cover two or three bases at a time.’

‘Well, that’s the mission, isn’t it?’

‘That’s a matter of interpretation.’

‘Call it whatever you want. ‘The enemy never sleeps, pal, don’t forget it. You want to turn namby-pamby, go right ahead, but let me tell you, if I can get rid of a piece of shit like Hadif and I have to bend the rules a little, you bet your ass I’ll do it. It’s my job. Sure, I made a deal with Fong. He was on the same side we’re on.’

‘He may have been on your side, Harry. He sure as hell wasn’t on mine.’

‘I had that under control.’

Fong clung to the ladder and sneered as he listened to Sloan’s confident explanation.

‘He raped and murdered Daphne Chien in cold blood just to get even with me,’ Hatcher said hoarsely. ‘He was about to hand you your brains. He was training antiterrorists upriver, that’s what ex-SAVAKs and Tontons were doing up there.’

‘He was training them for me,’ Sloan said bluntly.

Hatcher shook his head. ‘And what was the big payoff, Harry? Were you going to set him up so he could smuggle a thousand keys of 999 past customs?’

‘What the hell, if it wasn’t him it’d be somebody else. It’s good for the economy.’

‘Fifteen years ago you sent me upriver to get rid of the Chiu Chao dope smugglers. Now you’re in bed with them.’

‘Water under the bridge, laddie,’ said Sloan. ‘You’ve got Paris, New York, Chicago, your buddy in the insurance company. I’ve got Thailand. What the hell’s the diff?’

Hatcher stood up.

‘For years I thought you had mined me into a judge, jury and executioner. It finally got to me in Los Boxes, when I had nothing else to think about. Now I know I was never judge and jury — that was your job. I was just the executioner. Anyhow, somebody else will have to judge you. I’m through with all of that.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Home.’

‘What about me?’

‘Tell Buffalo Bill his son died honorably on the field of battle. He can die in peace. See you, Harry.’

Hatcher turned and walked away.

‘Wait a minute, damn it!’ Sloan called after him.

But Hatcher vanished into the swirling black smoky mist.

‘The world is divided into the shit-throwers and the shit-throwees, Hatcher,’ Sloan yelled after him. ‘Remember that. The throwees have damn little to recommend them.’

Sloan leaned back against the wall. The pain in his side burned deeper, but he turned his mind away from it as he worked up a story for the Thai major, the Mongoose, when he showed up.

He didn’t hear Tollie Fong drag himself painfully out of the river behind him, didn’t hear him creep across the dock, his feet squishing under him. Fong was almost on top of him before he became aware of his presence and turned — just in time to see the deadly dagger drop silently through the air and feel its awful point pierce his throat.

FISHING

Hatcher lay flat on his back staring at the ceiling. The boat rocked gently in the evening breeze, occasionally bumping the dock. He felt safe here and secure. It was good to be back home. After twelve hours of sleep his furnaces were beginning to fire up again. He watched a sliver of sunlight move slowly across the ceiling and vanish as the sun set. The mantle of darkness brought with it the night birds, who started calling to one another. He heard the car cruise slowly into the parking lot, its wheels crushing the oyster shells under them, and then the familiar footsteps. He felt the boat rock ever so gently. His eyes closed, and a moment later he felt her sit on the edge of the bed.

‘You’re late,’ he said without opening his eyes.

‘I went by the Crab Trap. Got us some shrimp and clam chowder,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think either of us felt like cooking tonight.’

He reached up, puller her gently down beside him, and she nuzzled his neck with her face.

I was thinking,’ he said. Why don’t we crank up the old scow and take a run out to the reef, eat out there, maybe even go for a moonlight swim.’

‘The ocean’s getting cold,’ she said.

‘Sure, I’ll bet it’s a freezing seventy-five degrees out there.’

There was a difference in their metabolism. She was always cold and he was always warm. What was comfortable to him raised goose bumps on her arms. In the heat of summer, air conditioning drove her crazy, while it was his salvation. But he had learned to compromise, something that had been alien to his experience before he met her. Ceiling fans and fast runs through the sound to the open sea worked for both of them.

She lay close to him, stroking his hard arms and hard stomach and wrapping one leg over his, pressing against him, drawing his strength to her.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked. It was the first thing she had asked him since his return the night before.

‘Tired,’ he answered. ‘It’s been a rough two weeks.’

‘Was the trip successful?’

‘Yes.’

She did not ask why he had gone or what had happened on the trip; she was grateful that he had returned as quickly as he had.

As he lay there she noticed that the hair on his arm was singed and his fingernails were cracked and damaged. But she put her curiosity aside. She knew eventually he would tell her what he wanted her to know. The rest was part of the secretness she had come to accept.

‘I had some bad times on this trip,’ he said suddenly, surprising her.

‘Bad in what way?’

‘The Chinese have a saying, “Killing the past scars the soul.” I put a lot of scars on my soul this trip.’

‘Are you sure you want to talk about this?’

‘No, I think it would be better to forget it, but I want you to know there were chapters in my life that needed closing and now they’re closed. There’s nothing more to be gained by looking back or talking about them.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. We learn from the past.’

‘There’s nothing I want to learn from mine.’

Unconsciously she rubbed the stubble on his arm as he spoke.

‘I put a lot of ghosts to rest.’ He sighed.

‘Is that why you went?’

He hesitated for a moment before answering. ‘That was part of it. I also felt an obligation to an old friend.’

‘Did all this have to do with that man who came here?’

‘He was part of it. He was the catalyst. It’s much too complicated to explain. But I’m glad I went. I had to deal with some things I’ve been ignoring for a long time.’

‘What kind of things?’

‘The dark side of my nature.’

‘Ah, so there is a dark side after all.’

‘Yes. There sure is.’

‘I’ve never seen that side of you.’

‘You see only what people let you see, Ginia.’

‘Is this going to be some kind of confession?’

‘No. I’d like to forget it now.’

‘Then I’ll forget it,’ she said. ‘I only know I missed you. I missed you every day. I’d come by the boat and sit up there and wonder where you were and what you were doing and whether you were well. I had this awful feeling you weren’t coming back.’

Close, he thought, your instincts are pretty damn good.

‘I thought a lot about you, too,’ he said.

‘I realized how little I know about you in those two weeks,’ she said. ‘I don’t know anything about you before you came to the island. You could be married for all I know.’

He laughed. ‘No, no wife. No children. No ugly surprises like that.’

‘I didn’t know you went to Annapolis, although I suppose I should have guessed, you’re so good with boats.’

‘Where did you learn that?’

‘From Jim Cirillo. I was over one day cleaning the boat and he came by. He really loves you, you know, I don’t think I ever realized that before. You’re like a son to him. He worries about you.’

‘And do you?’

She smiled, nuzzling harder. ‘Not when you’re here.’

‘I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere for a long time now.

‘That’s good news.’

‘It is?’

‘I’ve become too accustomed to being with you, Hatcher. It’s screwed up my life-style.’

‘Screwed it up?’

‘Well, not in a bad sense. I suppose that was the wrong way of putting it. I’ve become — dependent on you for certain things. I was always radically independent before you. That kind of thing can be, uh, uncomfortable.’

He rose on his elbows and stared down at her. The lights from the wharf reflected off the water and danced on the ceiling of the cabin. She turned her eyes away from his and rolled over, swinging her legs to the floor.

‘Why don’t I get our dinner ready,’ she said. ‘You must be starved.’

He reached out and pulled her back across his lap.

‘Not for food,’ he said.

‘See,’ she said, ‘that’s what I mean—’

‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘I’m attracted to you like I’ve never been attracted to any other woman. It’s not just sex, it’s everything. It’s this island that you’re part of.

It’s the way you think, your independence, your sense of humor. The mystery of you.’

‘Mystery?’

‘We both have dark times in our past—everybody does.’

‘And you think that’s good?’

‘I think it’s interesting. There are some things that don’t need to be shared.’

‘Well, I think your mysteries are probably one hell of a lot more interesting than mine.’

‘What I did on this trip, it was like cleaning out the attic, throwing away things that don’t really matter anymore. The friends I said good-bye to will always be friends. It’s just that our wavelengths have changed. My life is here, not there.’

He leaned over and kissed her softly on the mouth. Her lips, soft and yielding at first, became demanding. Her hand moved up the back of his neck, pressed his face harder against hers. Then suddenly she broke away and sat up. ‘Going to the reef is a wonderful idea,’ she said. ‘Besides, some of your fishing pals are liable to drop by if we stay here.’

‘I’ll put out the “Do not disturb” sign.’

She stood up and shook her clothes back in place.

‘No. Get some clothes on and crank this thing up.’

‘Done, mate,’ he whispered. He slipped on a pair of gray jogging pants, a T-shirt and sneakers and went up on deck. A southeasterly wind blew in off the ocean, carrying with it a hint of rain. The sky was dark, moonless and cloud-cluttered.

‘It tastes like rain,’ he said.

‘Good. I like to make love in the rain.’

‘It could get choppy out there.’

‘Are you backing out?’ she demanded.

‘Oh hell no, just making observations.’

A hundred feet away in the darkness of the parking lot, a skulking figure watched the boat, saw Hatcher and the woman come out on deck, heard their laughter, watched them kiss each other.

Tollie Fong leered into the darkness. Perfect, he thought. Two gwai-lo for the price of one.

Hatcher put the key in the ignition, primed the engine and cranked it up. In the stern the two big engines rumbled to life and muttered cantankerously for a minute or two before settling into a low, steady growl. Ginia went up on the wharf and loosened the bowline, coiling it over elbow, and hand before dropping it on deck. Then she went to the rear and did the same, dropping the coiled line near the stern.

Hatcher was a formidable foe, but this time surprise would be on Fong’s side. He moved closer through the shadows, focusing on Hatcher. lie could tell he was unarmed. And there did not appear to be any weapons secreted in the cockpit.

Safe and secure, they thought. Focused on each other.

That would make it all the sweeter and easier. Fong thought.

Hatcher was busy turning on radar and sonar and radio and other switches. He completed his usual check of engines and rpm’s and fuel.

‘How about a beer for the captain?’ he said.

‘Aye, aye,’ she said, vanishing into the cabin for a minute.

As she appeared back in the hatchway with a beer in each hand, he felt the boat dip ever so slightly to port. But before he could turn he saw her eyes widen, heard her gasp, then heard the voice.

‘Hatcher,’ it hissed.

He turned quickly. Fong was twenty feet away, standing in the bow of the boat, a pistol pointed at Hatcher’s head. Fear streaked through him for a moment, a lightning flash dispelled instantly by the thought of Ginia. He moved to his left in front of her.

‘What—’ she began and Hatcher said, softly, ‘Shh.’

‘Always the hero, eh?’ Fong snarled, his yellow eyes eager with anticipation. ‘You think standing in front of her will help? What a futile little gesture. I will kill her first, Hatcher, before I skin you alive.’

‘My God,’ Ginia whispered behind Hatcher.

There was a twisted ugly patch of skin on one side of Fong’s lace, the result of a burn that would be a perpetual scar. His eye was half closed. The hair on one side of his head had been scorched to within an inch of his scalp. One hand was bandaged. Fong had avoided painkillers to stay alert as he followed Hatcher halfway across the world. Now hatred, mixed with the pain, oozed out of him, fired his eyes, distorted what was left of his ruined face.

‘How appropriate,’ Fong said in a voice that was soft but trembling with fury. ‘First my boat, then yours.’

Hatcher still did not respond. He was standing squarely in front of Ginia now. He knew where she was standing, knew he could make a backward tumble and knock her back into the cabin. But then what? He was unarmed. The closest weapon was a knife in the galley. His weapons were locked away in the hold.

The thought flashed in Hatcher’s mind that he was going to die, and he accepted that as a reality. But he also knew Fong would kill Ginia. And probably first.

Fong stood in the bow of the boat, his automatic aimed at Hatcher’s head.

‘Surprised?’ Fong said.

Hatcher still did not answer. Within his peripheral vision he could see Fong step closer to the coil of rope on the deck. But the throttles were just out of reach and to go for them, to try to throw him off-balance, would leave Ginia exposed.

The gleaming blade of Fong’s stiletto appeared at Fong’s sleeve. His fingers clutched the hilt. He held the knife up, twisting it slightly so its evil blade glittered in the light from the dock.

‘Just for you,’ Fong said. ‘I used it on Sloan, too. Just after you left him there — alone.’

Hatcher still did not respond.

What’s the matter, Hatcher, can’t you talk anymore?’

‘You’re going to die too, you know,’ he said finally.

‘Don’t you wish. I’ll be back in Hong Kong before they even find you.’

Fong took another step closer. Hatcher’s muscles tensed. He spread his feet a little farther apart.

‘Why don’t you beg for the lady’s life at least,’ Fong sneered. ‘Why don’t you get down on your knees and do that.’

He took another step. His foot was inside the ring of rope on the deck.

‘You’d really like that, wouldn’t you,’ Hatcher whispered.

Fong smiled, an ugly leer, bubbling over with satisfaction.

‘Yes,’ he hissed, ‘I would like that a lot.’

‘Forget it,’ Hatcher snapped. He shoved backward, knocking Ginia back down the stairs into the cabin, dodged to his left and then just as quickly jumped to the right. Fong’s eyes widened. He fired once. The bullet sighed past Hatcher’s ear and arced off the corner of the windscreen as Hatcher’s hand found the throttles.

A second shot rang out. But it did not come from Fong’s gun; it came from up the pier somewhere in the dark, hitting Fong squarely in the chest. His shirt burst open and blood splashed from his heart. He shrieked with pain.

Hatcher dived forward, grabbing the coil of rope and pulling it so it snapped around Fong’s ankle. The Chinese flew backward off the boat and hit the water with a flat, hard splash. Hatcher wrapped the other end of the line around a rail hitch. He turned and crawled back to the cabin.

Ginia was sitting flat on the lower deck, her eyes wide with shock. Hatcher grabbed her hand and pulled her up and wrapped his arms around her, ‘It’s okay, it’s all over,’ he said.

‘Am I gonna be getting you out of trouble for the rest of eternity?’ Cirillo said, stepping out of the shadows.

He held his weapon in the crook of his arm.

Ginia sagged into Hatcher’s arms.

‘Where did you come from?’ Hatcher said with a sigh.

‘Saw Old Bob Hill up at the Big T. He saw this Oriental gentleman follow you in last night, so I decided to check him out. Pretty smart guy. He came in to Jacksonville on the plane ahead of you, rented a car, then waited until you arrived and followed you up here. You’re getting awful reckless in your old age,’ Cirillo said.

‘I thought he was dead,’ Hatcher said simply.

‘He is now,’ Cirillo answered, looking down at Fong’s body, which had rolled over face down in the water. ‘Can I assume this is one of the bad guys?’

‘The worst.’

‘So how do we explain this to the rest of the world?’ Cirillo asked.

Hatcher pulled in the line until Fong’s lifeless body was a foot or so off the stern and tightened it around the rail hitch.

‘We don’t,’ Hatcher answered.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Trust me on this, Jimmy. This guy doesn’t even deserve six feet of earth. I’m going to make a run out to the reef and feed the fish.’

Cirillo stared at his friend for a long time, perhaps a full minute. He reached in his pocket and took out a set of car keys and held them up.

‘He was planning a fast getaway,’ said Cirillo. ‘Left the keys in the car. Rental papers are in the glove compartment. It was prepaid by credit card. I think maybe I’ll just drive it down the Jax airport and drop the keys on the desk.’

‘Thanks, Jimmy. Believe me, you did the world a favor putting a bullet in him.’

Cirillo stared down at the soggy form floating face down behind the big boat. He lit a cigarette with a match, which he flicked into the ‘water. ‘Gimme a call when you get back.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Hatcher said. He stepped into the cockpit, and eased the throttles forward.

Hatcher put his arm around Ginia and drew her close to him. ‘You okay?’

‘I . . . think. . . so.’

‘Good.’

‘I think maybe we need to talk about this one,’ she said.

He smiled and said, ‘I think maybe you’re right,’ and pulling her closer to him, he shoved the throttles forward and the big boat streaked out into the sound with its ugly cargo dragging through the water behind it, past the now empty pier, past the friendly finger of light from the lighthouse, out to the open sea toward the reef.

THE END